SOUTHWARD    HO! 


sPELL  OF  SUNSHINE 


BY  W.  G1LMORE  SIMM>.  ESQ. 

4V1MOH  or  "  n.K    TEMASSF.K"  — "THK   PARTISAN"  -•"  MELLICHAMPE* 

"«4TH»His»     WAl.T-.s"— "THF.   <mrT"  — "  woonCRAFT."   CTC 


.  hwurd  hoi 
At  rne  war»-s  DOW.  M  tne  winas  oiow. 

fre*»  fh-  «nnnr  anil.  Irt  im  (jn,  fri*»nd«,  j|a' 


Xtto  ilorfe: 
A.    C.    ARMSTRoxc.    I     SON, 

-  M     R  R  O  A  D  \V  A  V 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  C?ngre»»,  in  the  year  1854, 

BY  J.  8.  REDFIELD, 

la  the  Clerk'i  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  State*,  in  and  for  the  Souther* 
DUtrirt  of  New  York. 


rrCRKOTTPED    BY    C.   C.    SAVAOC 
II  CbMton  lliMt.  5    Y 


SOUTHWARD   HO 


CHAPTER    I. 

"When  the  wind  is  «outherly,"  etc. — HAMLET. 

I  WAS  at  New  York  in  the  opening  of  July.  My  trunks  were 
packed,  and  I  was  drawing  on  my  boots,  making  ready  for 
departure.  Everybody  was  leaving  town,  flying  from  the  ap 
proaching  dog-days  in  the  city.  I  had  every  reason  to  depart 
also.  I  had  certainly  no  motive  to  remain.  New  York  wag 
growing  inconceivably  dull  with  all  her  follies.  Art  wore  only 
its  stalest  aspects,  and  lacked  all  attractions  to  one  who  had  sur 
vived  his  own  verdancy.  Why  should  I  linger? 

Hut,  in  leaving  the  city,  I  was  about  to  pursue  no  ordinary 
route  of  travel.  While  my  friends  were  all  flying  to  the  interior, 
seeking  cool  and  shady  glades  along  the  Hudson,  deep  caves  of 
the  Catskills,  wild  ridges  and  glens  of  the  Adirondack,  or  quiet 
haunt*  in  Berkshire,  I  had  resolved  on  returning  south  —  p'ing 
back  to  Carolina  in  midsummer.  A  friend  who  had  heard  of 
my  intentions  suddenly  hurst  into  my  chamber  with  all  the  fer 
vency  of  a  north««a>ter. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?"  was  his  question.  "  Back  to 
the  south?  In  the  name  of  Capricorn  and  Cancer,  why  this 
perverse  of  all  determinations  ?  What  can  you  menu  by 
it  .'  Is  it  suicide  you  purpose?  Is  death  in  the  swamps,  of 
malaria,  musquito,  and  coup  tit-  soldi,  preferable  to  knife  or  pis 
tol  .'  Can  you  really  prefer  black  vomit,  to  an  easy  and  agree 
able  death  from  charcoal  ?  Pnisaic  acid  will  be  more  easy  and 

250569 


4/\  •  *;: 

more  grateful,  and  you  will  make  a  far  more  agreeable  corpse 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Bpectator.  Yellow  fever  spoils  the  complex 
ion  ;  and  the  very  delay  which  you  make  in  dying,  by  such  a 
process  —  though  sufficiently  rapid  for  all  mortal  pin-poses  —  will 
b«  such  «i  loss  of  flesh  as  to  lessen  your  proportions  griev 
ously  when  laid  out.  Choose  some  other  form  of  exit.  Let  it 
be  short,  agreeable,  and  in  no  ways  hurtful  to  your  physique  or 
complexion.  Next  to  the  loss  of  one's  friend,  is  the  pain  one 
feels  in  seeing  the  ugly  changes  which  a  vicious  disease,  acting 
through  the  liver,  makes  in  his  personal  appearance.  Be  coun 
selled.  If  you  will  die,  go  with  me  to  the  chemist.  We  will 
get  you  something  which  shall  serve  your  purpose,  without  pro 
ducing  tedious  discomfort  and  spoiling  your  visage." 

My  friend  was  a  genuine  Manhattan  —  a  lively  rattlepate  of 
good  taste  and  good  manners,  who  had  the  most  unbounded 
faith  in  New  York  ;  who  venerated  the  ancient  Dutch  regime 
of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  hated  the  Yankees  quite  as  much  as  the 
southrons  are  said  to  do ;  but,  as  usual  in  Gotham,  believed 
the  south  to  be  a  n-alm  of  swamp  only,  miasma,  malaria,  mus- 
quito,  and  other  unmentionable  annoyances  —  totally  uninhabit 
able  in  midsummer  —  from  which  all  persons  commonly  fled  as 
from  the  wrath  of  Heaven. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  was  my  answer.  "  I  am  not  for  suicide.  I 
sha'n't  die  in  Carolina.  Yon  forget,  I  am  a  native.  Our  dis 
eases  of  the  south  are  BO  many  defences.  They  are  of  a  patri- 
intlnenre  and  character.  They  never  afflict  the  natives, 
y  only  sci/.e  upon  the  spoiler — those  greedy  birds  of  pas 
sage,  who  come  like  wild  geese  and  wild  ducks,  to  feed  upon 
our  rice-fields,  and  carry  oft'  our  possessions  in  their  crops,  when 
t)  «  harvest  is  ready  for  the  gathering.  We  are  as  healthy  in 
Carolina  in  midsummer,  nay  much  more  so,  than  you  are  in  New 
York.  ( 'harleston,  for  example,  is  one  of  the  healthiest  seaports 
in  the  Union." 

"  <  )h  !  get  out.  Tell  that  to  the  marines.  But,  supposing 
that  I  allow  all  that.  Supposing  you  don't  die  there,  or  even 
get  your  liver  out  of  order — there  are  the  discomforts  —  the  hot, 
furnace-like  atmosphere,  the  musquitoes  —  the  —  the — " 

"  You  multiply  our  miseries  in  vain.  I  grant  you  the  musquitoes, 
but  only  along  the  seaboard.  Twenty  miles  from  the  coast,  I  can 


6  SINV.INu    AM*    -TIN'.!' 

carry  you  to  the  most  delicious  pineland  settlements  and  climate, 
where  you  need  to  sleep  with  a  blanket,  where  no  epidemic  pre 
vails,  no  sickness  in  fact,  and  where  a  musquito  is  such  a  rarity, 
that  people  gather  to  survey  him,  and  wonder  in  what  regions 
he  can  harbor;  and  examine  him  with  a  strange  curiosity,  which 
they  would  never  exhibit,  if  he  could,  then  and  there,  make 
them  sensible  t-f  his  peculiar  powers.  When  one  happens  there, 
driven  by  stress  of  weather,  he  pines  away  in  a  settled  melan 
choly,  from  the  sense  of  solitude,  and  loses  his  voice  entirely 
before  he  dies.  He  has  neither  the  heart  to  sing,  nor  the 
strength  to  sting,  and  finally  perishes  of  a  broken  heart.  His 
hope  of  safety,  it  is  said,  is  only  found  in  his  being  able  to  fasten 
upon  a  foreigner,  when  he  is  reported  to  fatten  up  amazingly. 
The  case,  I  admit,  is  rather  different  in  Charleston.  There  he 
is  at  home,  and  rears  a  numerous  family.  His  name  is  Legi«m 
He  is  a  dragon  in  little,  and  a  fierce  bloodsucker.  There  he 
sings,  as  well  as  stings,  with  a  perfect  excellence  of  attribute. 
By  the  way,  I  am  reminded  that  I  should  use  the  feminine  in 
speaking  of  the  stinging  musquito.  A  lady  naturalist  has  some 
where  written  that  it  is  the  male  musquito  which  does  the  ting 
ing,  while  the  female  alone  possesses  the  stinging  faculty.  How 
the  discovery  was  made,  she  has  not  told  us.  But  the  fact  need 
not  be  questioned.  We  know  that,  among  birds,  the  male  is 
usually  the  singer.  Let  it  pass.  The  musquitoes,  truly,  are 
the  most  formidable  of  all  the  annoyances  of  a  summer  residence 
in  Charleston  ;  but,  even  there,  they  are  confined  mostly  to 
tain  precincts.  In  a  fine,  elevated,  airy  dwelling,  open  to  south 
and  west,  with  double  piazzas  along  the  house  in  these  quarter-. 
an.l  with  leisure  and  money  in  sufficient  quantity,  I  should  just 
as  soon,  for  the  comfort  of  the  thin;;,  take  up  my  abode  for  the 
summer  in  the  venerable  city  watered  by  the  Ashley  and  the 
Cooper,  as  in  any  other  region  of  the  world." 

"  Pooh  !  pooh  !     You  Charlestonians  an-  such  braggers." 

"Good!      This  said   by  a  Manhattan,  whose  domestic  geese 
are  all  Cygnets  —  rare  birds,  verily!" 

"  But  the  horrid  heat  of  Charleston." 

"  The  heat !     Why  Charleston  is  a  deal  cooler  than  either 
New  York,  Philadelphia,  or  Baltimore,  in  summer." 

11  Psha  !     How  you  talk." 


0  Snl'THWAlil)    H<»  ; 

44 1  talk  truly.     I  have  tried  all  these  cities.     The  fact  is  as 

1  tell  you ;  and  when  you  consider  all  things,  you  will  not  ven 
ture  to  doubt.     Charleston  is  directly  on  the  sea.     Her  doors 
open  at  once  upon  the  gulf  and  the  Atlantic.     The  sea  rolls 
its  great  billows  up  to  her  portals  twice  in  twenty-four  hours, 
and  brings  with  them  the  pleasantest  play  of  breezes  that  ever 
fanned  the  courts  of  Neptune,  or  made  music  for  the  shells  of 
Triton.     There  are  no  rocky  heights  on  any  side  to   intercept 
the  winds.     All  is  plain  sailing  to  and  from  the  sea.     Besides, 
we  build  our  houses  for  the  summer  climate.     While  you,  shud 
dering  always  with  the  dread  of  ice  and  winter,  wall  yourselves 
in  on  every  hand,  scarcely  suffering  the  sun  to  look  into  your 
chambers,  and  shutting  out  the  very  zephyr,  we  throw  our  doors 
wide  to  the  entrance  of  the  winds,  and  multiply  all  the  physical 
adjuncts  which  can  give  us  shade  and  coolness.     A  chamber  in 
a  large  dwelling  will  have  its  half  dozen  windows  —  these  will 
be   surrounded   with  verandahs  —  great    trees  will   wave   their 
green  umbrellas  over  these  in  turn  ;  and,  with  a  shrewd  whistle 
—  a  magic  peculiarly  our  own  —  we  persuade  the  breeze  to  take 
up  its  perpetual  lodgings  in  our  branches.     Remember,  I  speak 
for  our  dwelling-houses  —  these  chiefly  which  stand  in  the  south 
ern  and  western  portions  of  the  city.     In  the  business  parts, 
where  trade  economizes  space  at  the  expense  of  health  and 
comfort,  we  follow  your  Yankee  notions  —  we  jam  the  houses 
one  against  the  other  in   a  sort  of  solid  fortress,  shutting  our 
faces  against  the  breezes  and  tj^e  light,  the  only  true  resources 
against  lassitude,  dyspepsia,  and  a  countless  host  of  other  dis 
orders." 

4 1  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

41  Believe  as  you  please,  but  the  case  is  as  I  tell  you." 

44  And  you  persist  in  going  south  ?" 

44 1  do ;  but  my  purpose  is  only  to  pass  through  Charleston, 
after  a  brief  delay.  I  am  going  to  spend  the  summer  among 
our  mountains." 

"  Mountains  !  Why,  what  sort  of  mountains  have  you  in  Car 
olina  r 

44  Not  many,  I  grant  you,  but  some  very  noble,  very  lofty, 
very  picturesque  :  some,  to  which  your  famous  Catskill  is  only 
a  wart  of  respectable  dimensions  !  Our  Table  Rock,  for  exam- 


8OUTHKHN    HOOHTAIH8,  7 

pie,  is  a  giant  who  could  take  his  breakfast,  with  the  greatest 
ease,  from  your  most  insolent  and  conceited  summits." 

"  Why  have  we  never  heard  of  them  before  ?" 

"Because  vou  nre  talking  all  the  while  of  your  o?  n.  You 
hear  DOthing<  Were  yon  to  stop  your  own  boasting  fur  a  season, 
and  listen  to  your  neighbors,  you  would  scarcely  continue  to  as 
sume,  as  you  do,  that  the  world's  oyster,  everywhere,  was  to  he 
opened  only  by  the  New  York  knife.  In  the  matter  of  moun 
tains,  North  Carolina,  where  she  borders  on  South,  is  in  pos-.-- 
sion  of  the  most  noble  elevations  in  the  United  States  proper. 
Black  Mountain  is  understood  to  be  the  loftiest  of  our  summits 
But  there  are  many  that  stretch  themselves  up,  in  the  sain- 
gion,  as  if  eager  for  its  great  distinctions.  Here  you  find  a 
grand  sea  of  mountains  ;  billow  upon  billow,  stretching  away 
into  remoter  states,  on  all  hands,  till  the  ranging  eye  i.^es  itself 
with  their  blue  peaks,  among  the  down-tending  slopes  of  heav 
en.  It  is  here  that  I  propose  to  refresh  myself  this  summer.  I 
shall  explore  its  gorges,  ascend  its  heights,  join  the  chase  with 
the  mountain  hunters,  and  forget  all  your  city  conventionalities, 
in  a  free  intercourse  with  a  wild  and  noble  nature.  Take  mv 
counsel  and  do  the  same.  Go  with  me.  Give  up  your  Newport 
and  Saratoga  tendencies,  and  wend  south  with  me  in  search  of 
cool  breezes  and  a  balmy  atmosphere." 

"Could  I  believe  you.  1  .should!  I  am  sick  of  the  ancient 
routes.  But  I  have  no  faith  in  v«>ur  report.  You  think  it  patri- 
,  to  paint  your  sepulchres.  Their  handsome  outsides,  under 
your  limning,  .shall  imt  tempt  me  to  approach  them,  lest  they 
vawn  upon  me.  But,  write  me  as  you  go.  '  Description  is 
your  i'oj-te.'  I  .-hall  find  your  pictures  pleasant  enough,  when 
not  rr.juired  to  believe  them  truthful.  Refresh  me  with  your 
fictions.  Do  you  really  bel'n-ve  you  shall  see  a  mountain  where 
}  oti  go —  anything  higher  than  a  hill  —  anything  approaching 
our  Highlands?" 

"  Go  with  me.     See  for  yourself." 

"Could  I  persuade  myself  that  I  should  not  be  drowned  in 
a  mora».  eaten  up  by  muMj-  ^toes,  have  my  liver  tortured  by 
Yellow  Jack,  and  my  skin  utterly  cured  for  drumheads  by  your 
horrid  sun  —  I  might  ho  tempted.  You  would  betray  me  to  my 
fate.  I  can't  trust  you." 


8  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

•'  Hear  me  prophesy  !  Fifteen  years  will  not  jass  before  the 
mountain  ranges  of  the  Garolinas  and  Georgia  will  be  the.  fash 
ionable  midsummer  resort  of  all  people  of  taste  north  of  the 
Hml-m.  They  will  go  thither  in  search  of  health,  coolness, 
pun-  air.  and  the  picturesque.'' 

"  You  say  it  very  solemnly,  yet  I  should  more  readily  believe 
in  a  thousand  other  revolutions.  At  all  events,  if  you  will  go 
south  in  July,  see  that  the  captain  of  your  steamer  takes  an  ice 
berg  in  tow  as  soon  as  she  gets  out  to  sea.  There  are  several 
said  to  be  rolling  lazily  about  off  Sandy  Hook.  Write  me  if  you 
survive ;  and  deal  in  as  much  pleasant  fiction  as  you  can.  I 
shall  look  for  nothing  else.  Now  that  postage  is  nothing,  I  am 
ambitious  of  a  large  correspondence." 

41  You  shall  hear  from  me." 

"And,  by  the  way,  you  may  do  some  good  in  your  scrib- 
blings,  by  enlightening  others.  In  truth,  your  country  is  very 
much  a  terra  incognita.  Let  us  have  a  description  of  manners 
and  customs,  scenery  and  people.  A  touch  of  statistics,  here 
and  there,  will  possibly  open  the  way  to  our  capital  and  enter 
prise  ;  and,  to  one  so  fond  of  such  things  as  myself,  an  occa 
sional  legend  or  tradition  —  the  glimpse  of  an  obscure  history  of 
the  Revolution  —  or  of  the  time  beyond  it — will  greatly  increase 
the  value  of  your  correspondence." 

"A  good  hint !  I  may  inspire  that  faith  in  others  which  you 
withhold  —  very  unwisely,  I  must  say.  Your  world  does,  in 
truth,  need  some  honest  information  touching  ours,  by  which  to 
keep  it  from  such  sad  mistakes  as  augur  much  mischief  for  the 
future." 

"  Oh !  no  politics  now,  I  beg !  Leave  them  to  the  cats  and 
monkeys  —  the  dogs  and  demagogues." 

"  Don't  fear !  My  epistles  shall  be  penned  in  accordance 
with  my  moods  and  humors  —  according  to  passing  facts  and 
fancies  —  and  I  shall  only  occasionally  take  you  —  over  the  ditch 
and  gutter  !  This  assurance  should  keep  you  in  good  humor." 

"  Write  <if  what  you  see,  of  course." 

"And  of  what  I  feel." 

"And  of  what  you  think." 

•'And  of  wha*  I  hear." 

"And  of  what  you  know." 


y 

••  And  of  what  I  believe." 

"And—" 

"  What  more  !     One  would  think  these  requisitions  quite  suffi 
cient.     I  shall  try  to  comply  with  them  —  at  my  leisure." 

"  Don't  forget  to  give  us  a  story  now  and  then — a  legend  — 
fact  or  fabrication —  I  don't  care  which.  You  may  wind  up  a 
chapter  with  a  song,  and  a  description  with  a  story." 

"  You  are  indulgent !  Well,  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  you.  I 
shall  report  my  daily  experiences,  and  something  more.  My 
memory  shall  have  full  play,  and  the  events  of  former  prog 
resses  shall  be  made  to  illustrate  the  present.  I  shall  exercise 
perfect  freedom  in  what  I  write  —  a  liberty  I  hope  always  to 
enjoy  —  and  shall  soothe  the  idle  vein,  by  affording  every  privi 
lege  to  Fancy.  Without  some  such  privilege,  your  traveller's 
narrative  is  apt  to  become  a  very  monotonous  one  ;  and  he  who 
drily  reports  only  what  he  sees,  without  enlivening  his  details 
by  what  he  feels,  or  fancies,  or  remembers,  will  be  very  apt, 
however  much  he  may  desire  to  correspond,  to  find  few  friends 
willing  to  pay  postage  on  his  letters,  even  at  present  prices." 

•'  Good  !  You  have  the  right  notion  of  the  thing.  Well! 
You  go  at  three?  I  shall  SIM-  you  off.  Adios  /" 

Sui  h.  at    the    designated   hour,  my  friend   waited    my 

arrival  on  the  quarter-deck  of  the  good  steamer  Marion,  Berry 
master.     <  )nr  hands  grasped. 

*'  I  am  here,"  said  he. 

-  I  am  -rat. -ful  !" 

>•  ;\-  !  Hear  me  out!  Your  words  have  prevailed.  I  am 
anxious  to  believe  your  fiction.  I  am  tired  of  Newport  and 
Saratoga  —  long  for  novelty  —  have  insured  my  life  for  ten 
thousand  —  and  now,  ho!  for  the  South!  I  go  with  you  as  I 
am  a  living  man  !" 

And  we  sang  together  the  old  chaiit  of  the  Venetian,  done 
into  English  — 

"  Aa  the  wuvct  How,  a*  the  winds  blow, 
Spri-ud  free  Cie  tunny  rail,  let  uj  go,  brothwi»,  fo  ! 
Southward  u  !   Southward  ho  !" 


CHAPTER    II. 

"  Our  separation  so  aoides,  and  flics, 
That  thou,  residing  here,  go'st  yot  with  me, 
And  I,  hence  fleeting,  here  remain  with   tliee.'' 

I  Antony  <$•    Cleopatra. 

So  sudden  had  been  the  determination  of  my  friend  to  accom 
pany  me  south,  that  there  was  but  a  single  acquaintance  to  see 
him  off,  and  he  came  late,  with  a  quarter-box  of  cigars  under 
his  arm,  and  a  bottle  of  London-Dock  black  brandy,  rolled  up 
in  a  Mm*  silk  pocket-handkerchief,  carried  in  his  hands  as  gin 
gerly  as  if  a  new-born  baby.  These  were  to  afford  the/ieces- 
sary  consolations  against  salt-water.  My  friend  and  myself, 
meanwhile,  mounted  to  the  quarter-deck,  leaving  the  gang-way 
free  tu  the  bustling  crowds  that  come  and  go,  like  so  many 
striving.  <Tos>ing,  and  purposeless  billows,  on  all  such  occasions. 
We  had  n<>t  many  passengers,  at  this  season  of  the  year,  but 
they  had  numerous  acquaintances  to  see  them  off.  We  watched 
sundry  groups,  in  which  we  could  detect  symptoms  of  suppressed 
emotion,  not  less  intelligent  and  touching  because,  evidently, 
kept  down  with  effort. 

Kven  when  \ve  know  our  own  restless  nature,  eager  alwnvs 
for  change,  it  is  yet  wonderful  that  we  should  leave  home  — 
should  tear  ourselves  away  from  the  living  fibres  of  love  which 
we  leave  to  bleed  behind  us,  and  but  slowly  to  close  the  wounds 
in  our  own  bosoms. 

The  stronjri-st  heart  goes  with  some  reluctance,  even  when  it 
hurries  most.  The  soul  lingers  fondly,  though  the  horses  grow 
re-tiff  in  the  carriage  at  the  door.  We  look  back  with  longing 
eyes,  while,  the  vessel  drops  down  the  stream.  If  we  could 
endure  the  shame  and  self-reproach  of  manhood,  in  such  a  pro 
ceeding,  we  should,  half  the  time,  return  if  we  could. 

Truly,  this  parting  is  a  serious  business  —  even  where  the 
voyager  is,  like  myself,  an  old  one.  To  the  young  beginner  it 


PARTING   OF   FRIENDS.  11 

IB  a  great  trial  of  the  strength.  To  tear  oneself  away  from  the 
youthful  home  —  the  old  familiar  faces  —  the  well-remembered 
haunts  and  pathways,  more  precious  grown  than  ever,  —  when 
wo  are  about  to  leave  them,  perhaps  for  ever,  —  is  a  necessity 
that  compels  many  a  struggle  in  which  the  heart  is  very  apt  to 
falter.  The  very  strength  of  the  affections  betrays  its  great 
vncy  of  strength. 

The  gathered  crowd  upon  the  quay  —  the  eagerness,  the 
anxiety,  and  earnest  words  and  looks  of  all  —  the  undisguised 
tears  of  many  —  the  last  broken,  tender  words  of  interest  —  the 
subdued  speech  —  the  sobs  which  burst  from  the  bosom  in  the 
la.-t  embrace;  —  what  associations,  and  pangs,  and  fears,  and 
losses,  do  these  declare  !  what  misgivings  and  terrors  !  True, 
the  harbor  smiles  in  sweetness ;  the  skies  look  down  in  beauty  ; 
the  waves  roll  along,  soft,  subdued,  with  a  pleasant  murmur; 
there  is  not  a  cloud  over  the  face  of  heaven  —  not  a  voice  of 
threat  in  the  liquid  zephyr  that  stirs  the  hair  upon  your  fore 
head  :  but  the  prescient  soul  knows  the  caprice  of  wind,  and 
sea.  and  sky  ;  and  the  loving  heart  is  always  a  creature  full  of 
tender  apprehensions  for  the  thing  it  loves.  Long  seasons  oi 
delicious  intercourse  are  about  to  terminate  ;  strong  affinities, 
which  can  not  be  broken,  are  about  to  be  burdened  with  cruel 
apprehensions,  and  doubts  which  can  not  be  decided  till  after 
l«mur  "It-lay;  and  the  mutual  intercourse,  which  has  become  the 
absolute  necessity  of  the  heart,  is  to  be  interrupted  by  a  separa 
tion  which  may  be  final.  The  deep  waters  may  roll  eternal 
barriers  between  two  closely-linked  and  bonded  lives,  and  nei 
ther  shall  hear  the  cry  of  the  other's  suffering  —  neither  be  per- 
"d  to  extend  the  hand  of  help,  or  bring  to  the  dying  lips  the 
cup  of  consolation. 

Such  are  the  thoughts  and  fears  of  those  who  separate  daily. 

\   may  excuse  the  separation  ;   but  how  is  it  with   th<»e 

whose  chief  motive  for  wandering  is  pleasure  ?     In  diversity  of 

pp^pcct,  change  .  and  novel   associations,  they  would 

ape  that  cnmti  which,  it  seems,  is  apt  to  make  its  way  even 

into  the  abode  of  love.     There  is  some  mystery  in  this  seeming 

perversity,  and,  duly  examined,  it  is  not  without  its  justification. 

The  discontent  which   prompts  the   desire   for  change   in   the 

breast  of  man.  is  the  fruit,  no  doubt,  of  a  soul-necessity  which  is 


Ifi 

not  easv  to  analyze.  We  owe  to  this  secret  prompter  some  of  the 
best  benefits  which  the  world  enjoys;  and  the  temporary  sufferings 
of  the  affections  —  the  wounds  of  separation  —  are  not  wholly 
without  their  compensation,  even  while  the  wounds  are  green. 

A  similitude  has  somewhere  been  traced  between  the  effects 
of  parting  and  of  death.  The  former  has  been  called  a  death 
in  miniature.  It  certainly  very-  often  provokes  as  fond  an  exhi 
bition  of  grief  and  privation.  Hut  these  declare  as  much  for 
life  as  for  mortality.  There  is  another  side  to  the  picture.  The 
parting  of  friends  is  so  far  grateful,  as  it  gives  us  the  renewed 
evidences  of  a  warm,  outpishing,  and  acutely-sensitive  humanity. 
We  are  consoled,  through  the  sorrow,  by  the  love.  We  see  the 
grief,  hut  it  does  not  give  us  pain,  as  we  fir.d  its  origin  in  the 
most  precious  developments  of  the  human  nature.  We  weep, 
but  we  feel ;  and  there  is  hope  for  the  heart  so  long  as  it  can 
feel.  There  an-  regrets —  but  0!  how  sweet  are  the  sympa 
thies  which  harbor  in  those  regrets !  The  emotions,  the  pas 
sions, —  the  more  precious  interior  sentiments,  —  need  occasion 
ally  some  pressure,  some  privation,  some  pang,  in  order  that 
they  may  be  made  to  show  themselves  —  in  order  that  we  may 
be  assured  of  our  possessions  still;  —  and  how  warmly  do  they 
crowd  and  gather  above  us  in  the  moment  when  we  separate 
from  our  associates!  Into  what  unexpected  activity  and  utter 
ance  do  they  start  and  spring,  even  in  the  case  of  those  whose 
ordinary  looks  arc  cold,  who,  like  certain  herbs  of  the  forest, 
need  to  be  bruised  heavily  before  they  will  give  out  the  aromatic 
sweetness  which  harbors  in  their  bosoms ! 

And  these  are  the  best  proofs  of  life — not  death.  Humanity 
never  possesses  more  keen  and  precious  vitality  than  while  it 
suffers.  It  is  not,  as  in  the  hour  of  decay  and  decline  —  when 
the  blood  is  chilled  by  apathy — when  the  tongue  is  stilled  by 
palsy  —  when  the,  exhausted  nature  gladly  foregoes  the  strug 
gle,  and  craves  escape  from  the  wearying  conflict  tor  existence  — 
anxious  now  for  the  quiet  waters  only  —  imploring  peace,  and 
dulled  and  indifferent  in  respect  to  all  mortal  associations.  The 
thoughts  of  the  mind,  the  yearnings  of  the  heart,  are  all  of  a 
different  nature,  at  the  separation  of  friends  and  kindred.  They 
do  not  part  without  a  hope.  The  pain  of  parting  is  not  without 
a  pleasure.  There  are  sweet  sorrows,  as  well  as  sad,  and  this 


PftOHI       »i     TAHTING.  13 

is  one  of  that  order.  There  are  many  fears,  it  is  true  ;  but  these 
speak  for  life,  nay  hope,  rather  than  for  death.  Every  impulse, 
in  the  hour  which  separates  the  voyagers,  tells  of  life  —  of 
M  and  gratefu.  anticipations  —  of  renovating  experiences  — 
of  predicted  and  promised  enjoyments,  which  neutralize  the 
pain  of  parting.  even  in  the  breasN  that  most  warmly  love. 
Those  who  remain  weep,  perhaps,  more  passionately  than  those 
who  go.  Yet  how  swept  N  that  silent  tear  in  the  solitude  — 
haunted  by  happy  memories  —  in  the  little  lovely  realm  of 
home  !  The  voyager  loses  these  presences  and  associations  of 
home  ;  hut.  in  place  of  them,  he  dreams  of  discoveries  to  be 
made  which  he  shall  yet  bring  home  and  share  with  those  he 
leaves.  lie  will  gather  new  associations  to  add  to  the  delights 
of  home  ;  new  aspects  ;  treasures  for  the  eye  and  mind,  which 
shall  make  the  solitary  forget  wholly  the  lonely  length  of  his 
absence.  Nature  has  benevolently  possessed  us  with  prompt 
ings,  such  as  these,  which  disarm  remorse  and  apprehension  : 
else  how  should  enterprise  brave  the  yet  pathless  waters,  or 
h»pe  retread  the  wilderness  ?  Where  should  genius  look  for  the 
accompanying  aid  of  perseverance?  where  would  ambition  M  .  k 
for  encouragement  .'  where  would  merit  find  its  rev,  . 

It  i-,  well   to   leave   our  home*.    !  i,.      It  is  wive 

abroad    ni!i»ng   Mi-angers.      Tin1   mind   and    body,  alike,  lu-coinr 
debilitated,  and   lose   their  common   energies  as  frequently  ; 
the   lack  <>t'  change  and    new  society  n>    from   any  other  cau-e. 
Relaxation,  in   this  way,  from    the  toils  of  one  station,  serv* 
enlarge  the  capacities.  to  make  ro<,m  for  thought,  to  afford  time 
for  the  gathering  of  now  materials,  and  for  the  exercise  of  all 
tlip  faculties  and   sentiment.     As  the   farther  we  go  in 

the  natural,  so  in  the  moral  world,  a    like  journey  in  the  same 
manner    yields  us  a  wider   horizon.     Wo  add    to  our  '•toch 
Mtrition  with  strangers.     A  tacit  tr.<  ion  on  between  us. 

Our  mod os  of  thinking,  our  thoughts  themselves,  our   mai 
habits,  aims,  and  desires  —  if  not  exrhanired  f"r  other-; — l-emme 
intermixed  with,  or  modified  by  them.     They  gather  from 
much,  in    these   concerns,  and   in    this  way,  as  we   can   possibly 
derive  fr»m  them  ;  and  thus,  by  mutual  acquaintance  with  wich 
othri,  we  overcome   foolish   prejudices,  suhjucfite  ancient  enmi- 
Miik«    ne\v  friend*   and    A«-nrifltion»..  and    all    thii  -imply  bv 


14  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

enlarging  the  sphere  of  our  observation  —  by  overleaping  tho 
boundaries  of  a  narrow  education  —  leaving  the  ten-mile  horizon 
in  which  we  were  born,  and  to  which  our  errors  are  peculiar, 
and  opening  our  eyes  upon  a  true  picture  of  the  character  of 
the  various  man. 

Of  all  tyrants,  home  ignorance  is  the  worst. 

"  Home-keeping  youth  have  ever  homely  wits," 

which  subjugate  the  understanding,  enthral  the  heart,  minister 
to  a  miserable  sectarianism,  as  well  in  society  as  in  politics  and 
religion,  and  which,  in  the  denial  to  the  individual  of  any  just 
knowledge  of  his  fellows,  leaves  him  in  most  lamentable  igno 
rance  of  the  proper  resources  in  himself.  We  should  know  our 
neighbor  if  only  in  order  to  know  ourselves,  and  home  is  never 
more  happily  illustrated  than  when  we  compare  and  contrast  it 
with  what  we  see  abroad.  It  is  surprising  how  soon  we  lose  the 
faculty  of  reasoning  when  the  province  which  we  survey  is  con 
tracted  to  the  single  spot  in  which  we  sleep  and  eat.  We  cease 
to  use  our  eyes  when  the  sphere  is  thus  limited.  The  disease 
of  moral  nearsightedness  supervenes,  and  the  mind  which,  in  a 
larger  field  of  action  and  survey,  might  have  grasped  all  human 
ity  within  its  range,  grows,  by  reason  of  this  one  mishap,  into 
the  wretched  bigot,  with  a  disposition  to  be  as  despotic,  in  de 
gree  with  the  extreme  barrenness  of  his  mental  condition. 

"Ah  !  clearly,"  concluded  my  companion,  after  we  had  worked 
out  the  meditations  together  which  I  have  thrown  together  above 
as  a  sort  of  essay — "clearly,  there  is  no  more  moral  practice  in 
the  world  than  is  found  in  vagabondage  ;  yet  if  you  try  to  prove 
its  morality,  you  take  from  it  all  its  charm.  I  am  for  enjoying 
the  vice  as  such,  without  arguing  for  the  necessity  of  evil  — 
which  I  yet  admit. — But,  look  you,  we  are  to  have  some  lady 
passengers.  That's  a  graceful  creature  !" 

I  soon  discovered  in  the  group  to  which  my  companion  called 
my  attention,  some  old  acquaintances. 

"Ay,  indeed ;  and  when  you  have  seen  her  face,  and  chatted 
with  her,  you  will  account  her  beautiful  as  graceful.  She  ia  a 
gweet  creature  to  whom  I  will  introduce  you.  The  family  is 
one  of  our  oldest,  highly-esteemed  and  wealthy.  You  want  a 
wife  —  she  is  the  woman  for  you.  Win  her,  and  you  are  a  favor- 


BEAUTY    OF   THE    HUDSON.  15 

:  the.  gods.  She  has  already  refused  a  dozen.  Ten  to  one. 
slit-  is  on  her  way  to  the  very  mountain  regions  to  which  we  go." 

"  Good  ! — I  shall  be  glad  to  know  her.  Not  that  I  want  a 
wife  —  though,  perhaps,  I  need  one." 

The  group  disappeared  in  the  cabin.  Our  hour  was  ap 
proaching.  The  last  bell  would  soon  ring — our  fellow-passen 
gers — fortunately  few  in  number  —  some  forty  only  —  were  all 
on  board.  Several  of  them  were  known  to  me,  and  I  promised 
myself  and  my  companion  good-fellowship.  Meanwhile,  we 
were  taking  our  last  look  at  the  neighborhood.  The  bay  and 
harbor  of  New  York  make  a  very  grateful  picture.  The  am 
phitheatre  is  a  fine  and  noble  one,  but  it  is  a  mistake  to  insist 
upon  the  grandeur  of  its  scenery.  Mr.  Cooper,  once,  in  a  con 
ation  with  me,  even  denied  that  it  could  be  called  a  beauti 
ful  one.  But  he  was  clearly  in  error.  He  had  measured  its 
claims  by  foreign  standards,  such  as  the  bay  of  Naples,  the  ad 
juncts  of  which  it  lacked.  But  its  beauties  are  nevertheless 
undeniable.  The  error  of  its  admirers  is  in  talking  vaguely  of 
its  sublimity.  Grandeur  is  not  the  word  to  apply  to  any  por 
tion  of  the  Hudson.  It  is  a  bold  and  stately  stream,  ample, 
noble,  rich,  but  with  few  of  the  ingredients  of  sublimity.  It  im- 
pn^ses  you  —  is  imposing;  —  your  mind  is  raised  in  its  contem 
plation,  your  fancy  enlivened  with  its  picturesqueness  —  but  it 
possesses  few  or  none  of  the  qualities  which  awe  or  startle.  It 
has  boldness  rather  than  vastness,  is  commanding  rather  than 
striking,  and,  if  impressive,  is  quite  as  frequently  cold  and  unat 
tractive.  To  a  Southern  eye,  accustomed  to  the  dense  umbrage, 
the  close  coppice,  the  gigantic  forest,  the  interminable  shade. 
th«-  wildern.-ss  of  undergrowth,  and  the  various  tints  and  hues 
of  leaf  and  blossom,  which  crown  our  woods  with  variety  and 
sweetness,  the  sparseness  of  northern  woods  suggests  a  great 
deficiency,  which  the  alienee  of  a  lateral  foliage,  where  the 
H  do  occur,  only  increases.  Mountain  scenery,  unless  wild 
and  greatly  irregular,  repels  and  chills  as  commonly  as  it  invites 
and  beguiles.  There  must  be  a  sufficient  variety  of  i'<>re^t  tint 
and  shelter,  under  a  clear  blue  sky,  to  satisfy  the  fancy  and  the 
sympathies.  That  along  the  Hudson,  after  the  first  pleasant 
transition  from  the  sea,  becomes  somewhat  monotonous  as  you 
proceed.  For  the  length  of  the  river,  the  scenery  is  probably  a* 


HO 

agreeable  and  attractive  as  any  in  the  country,  unless,  perhaps, 
the  St.  John's,  which  is  quite  a  wonderful  stream  —  imposing  in 
spite  of  tl  •  ••  i»f  :tll  elevations  —  and  I  may  add,  in  certain 

respects,  the  Tselica,  or  French-Broad,  in  North  Carolina.  The 
first  of  these  rivers  is  remarkable  for  its  great  openings  into  noble 
lakes,  and  its  noble  colonnades  of  trees  ;  —  the  last  for  its  furious 
rapids,  its  precipitous  and  broken  heights,  that  bear  upon  their 
blasted  fronts  the  proofs  of  the  terrible  convulsion  of  storm  and 
fire,  that  rent  their  walls  apart  and  gave  passage  for  the  swollen 
torrent.  These  you  may  study  and  pursue,  mile  after  mile, 
with  constant  increase  of  interest.  But,  along  the  Hudson,  I  do 
not  see  that  the  spectator  lingers  over  it  with  any  profound  ad 
miration,  or  expectation,  the  first  hour  or  two  of  progress  being 
over.  Hi-  curiosity  seldom  lasts  beyond  West  Point.  Observe 
the  crowds  wayfaring  daily  in  the  steamboats,  between  New 
York  and  Albany  —  as  they  glide  below  the  Palisade,  that  ex 
cellent  wall  of  trap,  almost  as  regularly  built,  as  if  by  the  hand 
of  mortal  artificer  —  as  they  penetrate  the  Highlands  and  dart 
beneath  the  frowning  masses  of  Crow  Nest,  and  Anthony's 
X..-P  :  —watch  them  as  they  approch  all  these  points  and  places 
—  all  of  them  distinguished  in  song  and  story,  in  chronicle  and 
•ruide-hook —  and  you  will  perceive  but  little  raised  attention  — 
little  of  that  eager  enthusiastic  forgetfulness  of  self,  which 
ikl  the  excited  t'ancy.  and  the  struggling  imagination.  They 
will  talk  to  yon  of  beauties,  but  these  do  not  inflame  them;  of 
sublimities  which  never  inspire  awe  ;  and  prospects,  over  which 

\  awn  rather  than  wonder. 

In  tact,  the  exaggerations  in  regard  to  this  river  have  dono 
MNM4  wroni:  to  its  real  claims  to  respect  and  admiration.  The 
traveller  is  taught  to  expect  too  much.  The  scenery  does  not 
grow  ujiou  him.  The  objects  change  in  their  positions,  fr->m 
tliis  hand  to  that,  in  heiirht  and  bulk,  hut  seldom  in  form. 
as  infrequently  in  relation  to  one  another.  The  groups  bear 
still  the  same  family  likenesses.  The  narrow  gorge  through 
which  you  are  jia-^iiiL"  .'it  i.ne  moment,  presented  you  with  its 
twin  likeness  but  a  few  minutes  before;  and  the  great  rock 
which  towers,  sloping  gradually  up  from  the  river  in  which  it  is 
moored  with  steadfast  anchorage,  is  only  one  of  a  hundred  such, 
which  lack  an  individual  character.  The  time  h«i  not  yet  ar- 


THK    BAY    OK    \K\V     Vi  IKK.  17 

rived  when  the  commanding  physical  aspects  of  the  scene  shall 
possess  an  appropriate  moral  attraction  ;  when  the  temple  shall 
swell  up  with  its  vast  range  of  marble  pillars,  crowning  the  em 
inence  with  a  classic  attraction,  and  addressing  equally  the 
and  patriotism;  —  when  groves  and  gardens,  and  palaces, 
like  those  of  Bagdad,  shall  appeal  to  that  oriental  fancy  in  the 
spectator  which  is  clearly  ti.e  province  of  our  sky  and  climate. 

At  present,  these  are  somewhat  repelled  by  the  frequent  and 
manifest  perversities  of  taste,  as  it  seeks  to  minister  to  preten 
sion,  at  the  expense  of  fine  and  imposing  situations.  The  lawn 
which  spreads  away  upon  the  shore,  terminating  at  once  with  a 
West  Indian  verandah,  a  Dutch  farmhouse,  and  probably  a 
Gothic  cottage,  scarcely  persuades  you  to  a  second  glance ;  or, 
if  it  does,  only  to  prompt  you  to  quarrel  with  the  painful  and 
unfruitful  labors  of  the  architect  in  search  of  tho  picturesque. 
In  what  is  natural,  it  may  be  admitted  that  you  find  grace  and 
beauty,  but  somewhat  injured  by  monotony ;  in  what  is  done 
by  art  you  are  annoyed  by  newness,  and  a  taste  still  crude  and 
imperfectly  developed. 

The  bay  of  New  York  is  much  more  noble,  I  am  inclined  to 
think, than  the  Hudson  ;  but  the  characteristics  of  the  two  are  not 
unlike.     Depth,  fullness,  clearness  —  a  coup  d'atl  which  sat! 
the   glance,  and  a  sufficient  variety  in  the  groups  and  olje. 

-•iade  th.'  eye  to  wander — these  are  the  constituents  of  l.nth  ; 
and,  in  their  r.nnhination,  we  find  Mveetness,  grace  and  noldc- 
.  but  nowhere  grandeur  or  sublimity.  (Jreen  islets  ri>e  on 
either  hand,  the  shore  lies  prettily  in  sight,  freshened  with  ver 
dure,  and  sprinkled  by  white  cottages  which  you  must  not  ex 
amine  in  detail,  lest  you  suspect  that  they  may  be  temples  in 
di>Lr".  ••  H-  ud  batteries,  which  are  u-ually 

••wn,  but.  -pi-akinjr  more  to  the  card,  the  grin  is  more  IH-- 
quent  than  the  frown  ;  and  here,  emer^in^  through  the  gorge 
of  th.-  Narrows,  we  pa/e  on  |> lea-ant  hrijrhts  and  headlands, 
which  seem  the  prettiest  places  in  the  world  lor  summer  dwel 
lings  ami  retn-ats.  No  one  will  deny  the  beauty  of  the  si 
ns  it  is.  or  will  question  its  future  susceptibilities.  Let  us  adopt 
the  right  epithets.  In  passing  out  to  sea,  with  the  broad  le\.  1 
range  of  the  Atlantic  before  us,  glowing  purple  in  the  evening 
sunlight,  we  find  it  easy  to  believe,  pazinp  behind  us  upon  the 


18  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

shore,  that,  for  the  charm  of  a  pleasing  landscape,  a  quiet  home, 
a  dear  retreat  for  peace  and  contemplation,  no  region  presents 
higher  attractions  than  we  find  along  the  shores  which  lead  from 
Sandy  Hook  to  the  city  of  Manhatta,  and  spread  away  from 
that  up  the  valley  of  the  Hudson,  till  we  pass  beyond  the  Cats- 
kill  ranges. 

"You  are  like  all  the  rest  of  the  outsiders,"  said  my  compan 
ion,  querulously.  "  It  takes  a  New  York  eye  to  see  and  appre 
ciate  the  sublimity  of  the  Hudson." 

"  Precisely.  That  is  just  what  I  say.  It  is  the  New  York 
eye  only  which  makes  this  discovery.  But  we  are  off.  There 
goes  the  gun!  —  and  farewell,  for  the  present,  to  our  goodly 
Gotham.  Ah  !  there  is  Hoboken  !  How  changed  for  the  worse, 
as  a  picture,  from  what  is  was  when  I  first  knew  it.  Twenty 
years  ago,  when  I  first  visited  New  York,  Hoboken  was  as 
favorite  a  resort  with  me,  of  an  afternoon,  as  it  was  to  thousands 
of  your  citizens.  Its  beautifully  sloping  lawns  were  green  and 
shady.  Now  !  oh  !  the  sins  of  brick  and  mortar  !  There,  I  first 
knew  Bryant  and  Sands,  and  wandered  with  them  along  the 
shores,  at  sunset,  or  strolled  away,  up  the  heights  of  Weehaw- 
ken,  declaiming  the  graceful  verses  of  Halleck  upon  the  scene. 
All  is  altered  now!  Valet" 


CHAPTER    III 

"The  world's  mine  oy«t<>r, 
Which  I  with  sword  will  opoti." 

OUR  steamers  do  not  take  long  in  getting  out  to  sea.  We 
have  no  such  tacking  and  backing,  and  sidling  and  idling,  as 
afflicted  and  embarrassed  the  movements  of  the  ancient  packet- 
ships,  after  they  had  tripped  anchors.  On  the  present  occasion, 
our  vessel  went  ahead  with  a  will,  and  though  not  the  fastest  of 
our  steamers,  yet  with  a  power  of  her  own,  particularly  in  a 
heavy  sea,  and  with  lively  breezes,  which  enables  her,  under 
such  eircum.stances  to  surge  ahead  with  the  bravest.  We  were 
soon  out  of  the  hook,  with  our  nose  set  south,  a  mild  setting  sun 
persuading  us  onward,  holding  out  rosy  wreaths  and  halos  in 
the  west,  which  seemed  to  promise  well  for  the  balmy  clime  to 
which  our  course  was  bent.  The  breeze,  though  fresh,  was  soft 
and  wann,  and  tin1  sea  as  smooth  as  the  blandishments  of  a  pop 
ular  orator.  The  scene  \\  as  sufficiently  auspicious  to  bring  all 
the  pag8cn_«  i-  "ii  deck,  where  they  grouped  about  together  ac- 
iiiir  t'»  their  several  affinities.  I  kept  my  promise  to  my 
companion,  and  introduced  him  to  the  interesting  lady  in  dove- 
1  muslin. 

"  Miss  Burroughs,  sutler  me  to  introduce  to  you  my  friend, 
Mr.  Edgar  Dnyckman  of  New  York." 

The  la.ly  bowed  graciously  —  my  friend  was  superlative  in 
courtesy,  and  expressed  his  great  delight  in  making  her  acquaint 
ance.  She  smiled,  as  she  replied  — 

"  Mr.  Duvt  kman  set  ins  to  forget  that  he  enjoyed  this  pleasure 
on  a  previous  •  •era-inn." 

"  Indeed!  When-.  Mi--  Burroughs  ?"  was  the  response.  Our 
Edgar  was  evidently  disquieted.  The  lady  smiled  again,  the 
smallest  possible  twinkle  of  the  quiz  peeping  out  from  the  cor 
ner  of  her  eyes. 


20  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"  Both  at  Newport  ami  Saratoga.  But  1  can  hardly  complain 
that  the  impression  which  I  made  upon  his  memory  was  so  slight, 
remembering  how  many  were  the  eyes,  dazzled  like  his  own,  by 
the  blaze  of  Miss  Everton's  beauty." 

Very  rich  was  the  suffusion  upon  Edgar's  cheek.  He  had 
been  one  of  the  heedless  beetles,  who  had  his  wings  singed  in 
that  beauty's  blaze.  Common  rumor  said  that  he  had  born 
mortified  unexpectedly  by  a  rude  and  single  monosyllable,  from 
that  young  lady,  in  reply  to  a  very  passionate  apostrophe.  Poor 
fellow,  he  was  quite  cut  up  —  cut  down,  he  phrased  it — by  the 
extent  of  his  present  companion's  knowledge.  But  she  WAS  not 
the  person  to  press  an  ungenerous  advantage,  and  the  subject 
was  soon  made  to  give  way  to  another  which  left  the  galled 
jade  free.  He  soon  recovered  his  composure,  and  we  got  into 
a  pleasant  chat  mostly  about  the  world  in  which  we  found  our 
selves:  suffering  a  "sea  change"  in  thoughts  as  well  as  associa 
tion.  Our  fellow-passengers,  numbering  just  enough  for  good- 
fellowship  and  ease,  were  mostly  veteran  seafarers,  to  whom 
salt  water  brought  no  afflictions.  We  were  pleasantly  enough 
occupied  for  a  while,  in  scanning  their  visages  as  they  passed, 
and  discussing  their  appearances,  and  supposed  objects.  Of 
course,  a  fair  proportion  of  the  men  were  bound  south  for  busi 
ness  purposes.  The  ladies  were  but  three  in  number,  and,  like 
my  young  friend  and  myself,  their  nim  was  for  the  mountain 
country.  As  yet,  any  notion  of  taking  this  route  in  midsummer 
had  not  entered  into  the  imagination  of  summer  idlers  to  con- 
e.  We  were,  in  a  measure,  the  pioneers  in  a  novel  prog! 

My  friend  Duyckman,  soon  becoming  interested  in  the  fair 
Selina  Burroughs,  began  to  bring  forth  all  his  resources  of  read 
ing  and  experience.  He  had  an  abundant  supply  of  graceful 
and  grateful  resources,  nnd  was  capable  of  that  pleasant  sort  of 
intellectual  trifling  which  JH  perhaps  the  most  current  of  all  the 
light  coin  of  society.  The  moment  that  he  could  fairly  forget 
the  malajn-oj.nv  n  fi-n-nrp  to  the  beautiful  coquette  of  Newport, 
he  became  easy,  fluent  and  interesting,  and  under  his  lead  the 
chat  became  at  once  lively  and  interesting,  relating  particularly 
to  the  scenes  about,  and  the  prospect  before  us.  These,  as  T 
hnve  shown,  were  sufficiently  pleasant  and  promising.  The  sun 
was  fret,  but  th*  Choree  lay  still  in  sight,  a  dim  ^'Ipinp  of  const, 


THE   OYSTER   WAR.  21 

• 

n  dark  stripe  of  riban  1  along  the  deep.  We  were  not  yet  out 
of  our  latitude,  and  the  points  of  shore,  as  we  passed,  could  still 
be  identified  and  named.  It  i>  < M-V  enough  for  Americans  to  pass 
from  tin*  pit-sent  to  antiquity,  and,  per  saltum,  to  make  a  hurried 
transition  to  the  future.  The  orator  who  does  not  begin  at  the 
flood,  or  at  least  with  the  first  voyage  of  Columbus,  scarcely  sat- 
-  the  popular  requisition  on  this  head.  Thus,  coming  out  of 
the  month  of  the  Hudson,  it  was  matter  of  course  that  we  should 
meditate  the  career  of  old  Hendrick,  of  that  Ilk,  the  first  to  pen 
etrate  the  noble  avenue  of  stream  from  which  we  had  just 
emerged.  It  was  no  disparagement  to  the  ancient  mariner,  that 
mv  friend  dealt  with  him  in  a  vein  not  dissimilar  to  that  in  whirl- 
Irving  disposed  of  the  great  men  of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  the  Van 
Twillers,  the  Stuyvesants,  .and  other  unpronounceable  dignitaries. 
He  passed,  by  natural  transitions,  to  modern  periods. 

44  Perhaps,  the  most  exciting  of  recent  events  is  the  oyster 
war  between  the  Gothamites  and  Jerseyites.  The  history  of 
this  amusing  struggle  for  plunder  is  one  that  should  be  put  on 
record  by  a  becoming  muse.  It  is  a  fit  subject  for  an  epic.  I 
would  recommend  it  to  Bayard  Taylor,  or  Dr.  Holmes.  The 
first  essential  is  to  be  found  in  the  opposite  characteristics  of  the 
rival  races  They  an-  sutKciently  distinct  for  contrast — York 
and  Jersey — as  much  M  as  Greek  and  Trojan.  A  study  of  de 
tails  would  afford  us  the  Achilles  ami  Hector,  the  Ulysses,  Ajax. 
and  i  I.  Nor  should  we  want  for  a  pious  priest  or  tsv.., 

since,  in  modern  times,  piety  is,  by  a  large  number,  supposed  to 
be  only  a  fit  training  for  habits  of  peculation." 

14  It  furnishes  a  frequent  mask,  at  all  events." 

fc;  and  wan  not  wanting  in  this  contest.     The  number  of 
persons  engaged  was  sufficient  to  enlist  all  varieties  of  character, 
and  it  was  a  matter  of  vital  interest  to  one  of  the  parties  at  least. 
The    smaller   republic    was   larpely  interested    in    the   snl-jr 
debate.       The    courage   ami    enterprise    of    the    Jerseyans  had 
plucked  the  ni^ired  oyster  from  his  native  abodes,  and  subjc 
him  to  the  usual  processes  of  civilization.     They  had  planted  him 
in  favorite  places,  and  given  due  attention  to  his  training, 
oyster  was  grateful,  and  took  his  education  naturally.      I 
and  fatted  ;  and  the  bem'V'dent   Jrrseyans  watched  his  growth 
and  improvement  with  dailv  care,  looking  fondly  forward  to  tl'»- 


'2'2  iU\YARl>     MO! 

time  when  lie  should  take  his  place  in  the  gratified  presence  of 
tln»  great  and  noble  of  the  land.  Famously  did  the  oyster  grow 
—  thus  considerately  protected  —  until  he  rose  conspicuous  in 
every  estimation  among  the  gastronomes  of  Gotham.  These 
looked  with  equal  envy  and  admiration  upon  the  performances 
of  their  neighbors.  Little  did  Jersey  suspect  the  danger  that 
awaited  her  favorites.  But  cunning  and  cupidity,  and  eager 
lust,  and  ravenous  appetite,  were  planning  desolation  and  over 
throw  to  the  hopes  of  these  guardians  of  the  innocent.  Evil  de 
signs  were  plotted  —  cruel,  treacherous,  barbarous,  like  those 
which  finally  routed  the  poor  nuns  at  midnight  from  their 
Charlestown  convent.  And  great  was  the  shock  and  the  horror 
of  Jersey  when  the  assault  was  finally  made  under  cover  of 
night  and  darkness." 

"  Truly,  Mr.  Duyckman,  you  make  a  lively  picture  of  the 
event.  Pray  go  on  :  I  am  interested  to  know  the  result.  What 
of  the  progress  of  the  war  ?  I  confess  to  only  a  slight  knowl 
edge  of  the  affair." 

"  Without  the  documents,  I  can  not  go  into  particulars.  To 
collect  these  would  require  a  life.  To  depict  them  properly 
would  demand  a  Homer.  The  war  between  the  cranes  and 
frogs  would  alone  furnish  a  just  plan  for  such  a  history.  I 
must  content  myself  with  a  summary.  But,  were  you  to  have 
proper  portraits  of  the  fierce  Sam  Jones,  the  redoubtable  lVt*» 
1'innock,  Ben  the  Biter,  Barney  the  Diver,  Bill  the  Raker,  Ned 
the  Devonrer,  and  a  score  or  two  more,  on  both  sides,  who  dis 
tinguished  themselves  in  the  field  during  this  bivalvular  cam 
paign,  you  would  feel  that  there  are  still  provinces  for  the  epic 
muse,  in  which  she  might  soar  as  gloriously  as  she  ever  did  in 
the  dnys  of  Ilium.  Jersey  rose  to  the  necessities  of  the  occa- 
sion.  We  will  say  nothing  about  her  interest  in  this  event ;  but 
lier  pride  was  involved  in  the  security  of  her  virgin  beds  ;  and 
when,  prompted  by  cupidity,  these  were  invaded,  /•/'  rt  tinnis, 
by  the  grasping  Gothamites,  who  desired  to  share  the  spoils 
which  their  valor  had  not  been  sufficient  to  achieve,  it  was  not 
to  be  wondered  at  that  all  Jersey  should  rise  in  arms.  The 
public  sentiment  was  unanimous.  From  Newark  to  Absecom, 
but  a  single  cry  was  heard.  From  Jersey  City  to  Cape  May, 
the  beacons  were  lighted  up.  The  cry  To  arms !'  spread  and 


SAM  JONI:-   IHK  nit..  -2'.} 

far  and  wide,  from  the  heights  of  Weehawken  to  the 
breakers  of  Harnegat.  The  feeling  of  each  Jerseyan  was  that  of 
the  North  Carolinian  from  Tar  river,  on  his  way  to  Texas,  when 
he  heard  of  Santa  Anna's  invasion  of  the  single  star  republic. 
Thev  flourished  their  plover-guns,  where  the  son  of  the  old 
li  State  flourished  his  ritle,  preparing,  like  him,  to  assert 
their  rights,  in  nuhibuft.  Well  might  the  oyster  family  become 
proud  of  the  excitement  occasioned  by  the  contemplated  inva 
sion  of  their  abodes.  The  banner  of  lust  and  avarice,  carried 
by  the  Gothamites,  was  borne  forward  with  sufficient  audacity 
to  show  the  estimated  value  of  the  prize." 

Here  our  captain  put  in  with  a  fragment  of  one  of  the  ballads 
made  on  the  occasion  :  — 

"  It  was  Sum  Jones,  the  fisherman,  so  famed  at  Sandy  Hook, 
That,  rising  proudly  in  the  midst,  the  oyster-banner  took, 
And  waved  it  o'er  the  host,  until,  convulsed  in  even-  joint, 
They  f-wore  with  him  u  mighty  oath  to  rupture  Oyster  Point: 
Sin-li  luscious  pictnn  -  as  In-  dn-w  of  treasures  hoarded  there, 
Sin-h  prospects  of  the  future  st.-\v,  the  hrnil  and  fry  to  share, 

•  •ek  or  Roman,  Turk  or  Goth,  with  such  an  eager  scent, 
By  such  u  fierce  marauder  led,  to  raid  or  slaughter  went. 
All  glory  to  Sam  Jon.-,  ih,-  \\\^ — a  mighty  man  was  he; 
And  when  he  next  goes  forth  to  fight,  may  I  he  there  to  see." 

•   I'M  a\o,  captain!  you  are  as  good  as  a  chronicler.     Let  us 

••  That  i-  all  I  recollect  of  the  ballad  ;  hut,  had  I  known  your 
wishes  in  season,  we  might  have  got  it  all  out  of  the  pilot.  He 
was  in  the  war,  and  was  one  of  the  wounded — taken  with  the 
tine  edge  of  an  oyster-shell  on  the  left  nostril,  where  he-  carries 
the  proof  of  his  valor  to  this  day  in  a  monstrous  scar.  The 
only  further  curious  fact  I  know,  in  the  history,  is  that  the 
said  scar  alwavs  opens  afresh  in  the  '  R'  months,  —  the  oyster- 

Thc  curious  fact  thus  stated  led  to  some  discussion  of  the  occult 

subject  of  moral  and  physical  affinities,  in  which  we  wan*. 
off  to  the  phil«»M'ph>-  of  Sir  Kenelm  I  >ijrhy  and  Hahnemann. 
MI  these  we  concluded  that  there  is  a  latent  truth  in  the 
vulgar  proverb  which  asserts  "  the  hair  of  the  dog  to  be  good 
"or  the  bite"  —  a  proverb  which  we  hold  to  be  the  true  source 
of  homeopathy.  The  practical  inference  from  the  discussiou 


•J4  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

tlmt  our  pilot  could  do  nothing  more  likely  to  effect  the  curb 
of  his  abraded  nostril,  than  to  subject  bis  nose  to  an  oyster- 
.scraping  in  all  the  months  which  contain  the  irritating  letter. 
This  episode  over,  our  Gothamite  continued  his  narration  :  — 

"  The  invasion  of  the  oyster-beds  of  Jersey,  thus  formidably 
led  by  Jones  the  Big,  was  at  first  a  surprise.  The  Jerseyans 
m-vtM-  dreamed  of  the  malice  of  their  neighbors.  But  they  had 
been  vigilant,  and  were  valiant.  The  Jersey  Blues  had  enjoyed 
ry  honorable  reputation  lor  valor  from  the  Revolutionary 
period,  not  exceeded,  perhaps  scarcely  equalled,  by  any  of  the 
neighboring  colonies.  They  had  a  proper  pride  in  maintaining 
this  reputation.  It  was  at  once  a  question  of  life  and  honor, 
and  they  rushed  fearlessly  to  the  rescue.  The  slaughter  of 
their  innocents  had  begun,  and  they  were  suffered  but  little  time 
for  preparation.  Hastily  snatching  up  what  weapons  and  mis 
siles  they  could  lay  hands  upon,  they  darted  forth  by  land  and 
sea.  For  a  season,  the  war  consisted  of  unfruitful  skirmishes  only, 
but  the  two  armies  at  length  drew  together.  The  great  cities 
of  refuge  of  the  oyhter  were  in  sight,  the  pri/e  of  valor.  The 
audacit  v  of  tin*  invaders  increased  with  the  prospect.  Sam  Jones 
led  his  followers  on  with  a  savage  desperation  peculiarly  his 
own.  Very  fearful  had  been  Sam's  experience.  He  had  slept 
upon  a  circle  of  six  feet,  on  an  oyster-bed,  with  the  Atlantic  rol 
ling  around  him.  He  had  enjoyrd  a  hand-to-hand  combat  with  a 
shark,  of  sixteen  feet,  in  five-fathom  water.  He  had  ceased  to 
know  fear,  and  had  learned  to  snap  his  fingers  at  all  enemies. 
No  wonder,  led  by  such  a  hero,  that  the  Gothamites  went  into 
the  fray  with  a  rush  and  shout  that  shook  the  shores,  and  made 
the  innocent  muscles  under  water  quake,  to  the  centre  of  their 
terrified  beds.  They  rushed  to  the  attack  with  a  courage  which, 
as  the  moral  historians  are  apt  to  say,  was  worthy  of  a  better 
cause.  The  Greeks  at  Troy,  under  the  conduct  of  Ajax  the 
Buffalo,  never  darted  under  the  hills  and  towers  of  Ilium  with 
more  defiant  demeanor." 

"  I  am  impatient  for  the  issue,"  said  the  lady.  "  Pray,  how 
did  the  Jerseyans  stand  the  shock  ?" 

"Most  gallantly  —  as  if  duly  inspired  by  the  innocence  which 
they  sought  to  defend.  The  Trojans,  led  by  Hector  and  Troilus, 
never  showed  fiercer  powers  of  resistance  than  did  the  serried 


THE    FALL    OF    SAM. 

ranks  of  Jersey  under  the  terrible  concussion.     Even-  man  be 
came   a  hero,  —  every   hero   a  tower  of  strength  —  a  fort: 
Terrible  was  the  encounter.     The  battle  opened  with  the  flight 
of  missiles  from  the  light  troops.     Shells  skated  through  the  air. 

I:  -AM      ;.i   the    play  of   this  light   artillery  that   the   nose  of   Hill 

lY.kins    the    pilot,   suffered    its    hurts.       Another — one   of   the 

-  un  —  had  the  bridge  of  his  fairly  broken. 

It  has  not  been  held  passable  since.  But  the  sanguinary  pas- 
si.  -n*  of  the  two  parties  were  not  willing  that  the  fight  should 
long  continue  at  respectful  distances.  Soon,  pike  crossed  \vith 
pike  ;  -VM.  i  rakes  grappled  with  oyster-rakes;  forks,  that  once 
drove  unembarrassed  through  the  luscious  sides  of  fat  victims 
only,  now  found  tierce  obstruction,  and  no  fat,  from  implements 
of  their  own  structure  and  dimensions.  The  conflict  was  long 
in  suspense,  and  only  determined  in  the  fall  of  the  redoubtable 
Sam.  the  monarch  of  Sandy  Hook.  He  succumbed  beneath  a 
i  Imv  inflicted  by  a  young  turtle,  which,  caught  np  in  his  des 
peration  by  Ralph  Roger,  of  Tuckahoe,  was  whirled  about  as 
tie  in  a  sling,  thrice  above  his  head,  until  it  came  in  ron- 
tact  with  that  of  Jones.  Shell  against  shell.  The  crack  of  one 
of  them  v.-as  heard.  l''«>r  a  moment,  the  question  was  doubtful 
which.  Hut,  in  a  jiffy,  the  gigantic  bulk  of  Jones  went  over,  like 
a  thousand  of  brick,  shaking  the  clam-beds  for  sixty  miles  along 
the  shore.  An  awful  groan  went  up  fr-nn  the  assembled  (Jotham- 
The  affair  was  over.  They  lost  heart  in  the  fall  of  their 
,  and  threw  down  their  arms.  JeUtf  comjuered  in  the 
conflict." 

red  !"  exclaim.  i-irroughs,  her  proper 

Bens'  ,'uiall\   s%  mpathi/ing  with  the  threatened  inno 

cent  -  1  at  midnight  in  their  unconscious  be 

"  And  what  punishment  was  inflicted  upon  the  marau  :• 
"A    \«'iy    t'e.-irful    one.      Thirty     pri-..;;ers    were   taken;    many 
had  fallen  in  the  ti-ht  ;    many  more  had  lied.     The  missing  have 
never  been  a  i  to  this  day." 

"  Well,  but  the  punishment  ?" 

is  was  planned  with  a  painful  malice.  At  first,  the  vin 
dictive  pas-ions  of  the  .Jersevans  heint:  uppermost,  it  was  strenu 
ously  urged  that  the  captives  should  be  sacrificed  ms  A  due 
warning  to  evil-doers.  It  wag  agreed  that  nothing  short  of  the 

2 


26  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

most  extreme  penalties  would  suffice  to  prevent  the  repetition 
of  the  offence.  The  nature  of  the  necessity  seemed  to  justify, 
with  many,  the  sanguinary  decision.  The  principle  urged  was, 
that  the  punishment  was  to  be  graduated  rather  by  the  facility 
of  crime  than  by  its  turpitude.  Thus,  horse-stealing  is  in  some 
regions  rated  with  murder,  simply  because,  from  the  nature  of 
-t  and  country,  it  is  supposed  that  horses  may  be  more  easily 
stolen  than  men  slain.  Men  are  usually  assumed  to  incline  to 
defend  their  lives ;  but  it  would  be  an  extreme  case  where  a 
horse,  once  bridled  and  saddled,  would  offer  any  resistance  to 
his  own  abduction.  He  would  rather  facilitate  the  designs  upon 
his  own  innocence  by  the  use  of  his  own  legs.  The  oysters, 
more  simple,  more  confiding  than  the  horse  even,  are  still  more 
at  the  mercy  of  the  marauder.  His  crime  is,  accordingly,  in 
proportion  to  the  weakness,  the  good  faith,  the  confiding  sim 
plicity  of  the  creature,  whose  midnight  slumbers  he  invades. 
These  arguments  were  well  urged  by  one  of  the  Jersey  oyster- 
men,  who  had  once  filled  the  station  of  a  chancellor  of  one  of 
the.  supreme  courts  in  one  of  the  states.  A  passion  for  Cognac 
had  lost  him  his  elevation,  and,  in  the  caprices  of  fortune,  he 
had  pas>cd  from  equity  to  oysters.  The  transition,  now-a-days. 
i<  hardly  one  to  surprise  or  startle.  He  used  his  old  experience, 
whenever  he  could  get  a  chance  to  practise  upon  an  audience, 
and  made  a  monstrous  long  speech  upon  this  occasion;  and 
very  touching  indeed  was  the  picture  which  he  drew  of  the  ten 
der  character,  the  virgin  innocence,  the  exposed  situation,  the 
helplessness  of  the  oyster  —  its  inabilities  for  self-defence,  and 
the  virtues  which  commended  it  to  all  persons  of  proper  sympa 
thies  and  a  genuine  humanity  —  which  were  of  a  sort,  also,  to 
provoke  the  horrid  appetites  of  a  class  of  desperates  who  per 
petually  roamed  about,  like  the  evil  beasts  described  in  scrip 
ture,  seeking  only  what  they  might  devour.  Our  ex-chancellor 
argued  that  the  oyster  was  to  be  protected  from  invasion;  that 
prevention  was  al\\ays  Letter  than  cure  ;  that  the  punishment 
of  the  criminal  was  the  only  proper  process  of  prevention;  that 
law  was  only  valuable  t'.ir  it>  elircts  in  terruiem  ;  that  the  rights 
of  eminent  domain  in  Jersey,  along  the  whole,  u\Mer  region  in- 
yaded,  conferred  upon  her  the  right  of  summary  punishment,  at 
her  discretion, as  the  necessary  incident  of  her  sovereignty;  ami 


V.E  VICTIS!  _7 


he  wound  up  by  an  eloquent  .illusion  to  the  oysters  as 
the  benefactor*  of  mankind.  They  suffered  themselves  to  live 
and  fatten  only  for  our  gratification  ;  and  the  least  that  could  be 
done  would  be  to  put  to  death  all  persons  who,  without  legal 
rights.  presumed  to  penetrate  their  sleeping-  places  and  tear  them 
fn>m  their  beds  with  violence." 

1  begin  to  tremble  for  the  captives,"  quoth  the  lady. 
•'  vV^ell  you  may.  The  ex-chancellor  had  gone  into  the  ac 
tion  only  after  certain  free  potations,  and  he  was  eloquent  in 
the  extreme.  The  situation  of  the  prisoners  became  a  very 
perilous  one.  They  were  permitted  to  hearken  to  the  keen  de 
bate  respecting  their  crimes  and  probable  fate.  Roped  in  boats, 
or  along  the  shore*,  they  waited  in  fear  and  trembling  for  their 
doom.  Fortunately,  the  counsels  of  humanity  prevailed.  The 

•>van.<v  satisfied  with  having  asserted  their  rights,  and  pleased 
with  victor\  ,  were  prepared  to  be  magnanimous.  They  spared 
tli«-  lives  of  the  offenders,  but  did  not  suffer  them  to  depart 

My  without  punishment.  It  may  be  said,  that,  considering 
the  appetites  of  the  Manhattanese,  they  adopted  the  severest 
of  all  p.issihlo  punishments.  With  their  captives  fast  tethered 
in  sight,  they  prepared  to  indulge  in  in  which 

the  Mauiiattanesr  were  not  allowed  to  sh  ; 

"  They  provided  an  ample  supply,  ami  dressed  them  in  all  pos- 
sihle  mode*  l.y  which  to  t,  -'it  the  desire*  of  the  epicure.  The 
caj.  lives  inhaled  the  pleasant  i  the  fried;  they  beheld 

the  precious  liquid  which  embraced  the  portly  dimension*  of  the 

fed  ;   they  inhaled  the  odors  of  choice  claret  as  it  amalgar. 
with  other  xch-ct  virtue*  of   the  st.-w,  and  they  gloated  over  the 
delieioiisly-brown  of  a  large   platter  of  oyster-fritters. 

Ojtt  !1    sides,  in    all   shapes,  in    every  stvle  of  dre  — 

rewarded  the  victors  for  their  toil*,  while  the  conquered,  permit* 

•  •  denied  altogether  to  enjoy.      The  meat  ; 

extracted,  the  odorous  shells  \v.  n-  plac.-d  U-toro  them,  and  they 
were  bidden  to  eat.  •  You  claimed  a  share  in  our  1.,-d-.'  was  the 
•i  h  of'  the  conquerors.  —  '  your  share  is  brfoiv  \  «-u. 
Fall  to  and  welcome.  '  Violent  groans  of  anguish  and  mortifi 
cation  hurst  from  the  bosoms  of  the  prisoners  at  this  indignity. 
Sam  Jones,  with  a  broken  sconce,  roared  his  rage  aloud  with 
the  breath  of  a  wr  unded  buffalo.  But  there  was  no  redress  — 


28  MIL-  ill  WARD   HO! 

110  remedy.  After  a  twenty-four  hours'  captivity,  the  offenders 
were  permitted  to  go  free,  with  an  injunction  to  '  sin  no  more' 
in  the  way  of  oysters.  It  needed  no  such  injunction  with  many 
of  the  party.  The  terrors  which  the  poor  fellows  had  undergone 
probably  cured  them  of  their  tastes,  if  not  their  cupidity,  and 
we  may  fancy  them  going  off,  mournfully  singing — 

"  So  we'll  go  no  more  an-oystering 

So  lat-  into  the  nitzht." 

This,  in  little,  is  the  history  of  the  war,  which,  as  I  have  said, 
deserves  to  be  chronicled  for  the  future  in  Homeric  verse. 

Here  one  of  our  fellow-passengers  put  in  :  — 

"  The  history  of  the  wars  between  the  tribes  of  Gotham  and 
y.  which  you  have  given,  has  its  parallels  in  other  states. 
I  was  on  a  visit  to  what  is  called  in  Virginia,  'The  Eastern 
Sin  ire.,'  where  they  give  you  just  such  a  narrative,  and  where 
the  oyster-beds  are  similarly  harassed  by  irresponsible  marau 
ding  parties,  most  of  whom  are  Pennsylvanians.  The  commerce 
of  this  region  is  chiefly  in  oysters.  In  all  the  bays  you  behold 
at  anchor  a  suspicious  sort  of  vessel  —  looking  for  all  the  world 
like  the  low,  long,  black-looking  craft  of  the  Spanish  jiibustic/. 
From  some  of  the  stories  told  of  these  vessels,  they  are  really  not 
a  whit  better  than  they  should  be ;  and  their  pursuits  are  held 
to  be  almost  as  illegitimate  as  those  of  the  ancient  buccaneers 
of  Nassau  and  New  Providence.  They  wage  an  insatiate  war 
upon  one  class,  the  most  inoffensive  of  all  the  natives  of  the 
Eastern  Shore.  Their  most  innocent  name  is  '  pungo'  —  a  sort 
of  schooner,  hailing  mostly  from  Manhattan  and  Massachusetts. 
They  prey  upon  the  Virginia  oyster  hanks,  ostensibly  under  the 
forms  of  law.  By  contract,  they  procure  the  ordinary  'raccoon 
•••r'  --tin-  meanest  of  the  tribe  —  an  innocent  in  a  perfect 
state  of  nature  —  totally  uneducated,  at  a  shilling  (York)  per 
bushel.  These  arc  carried  off  in  large  quantities  to  the  bays 
and  harbors  of  Pennsylvania.  X,  \\  York,  and  places  farther 
east,  and  placed  in  nurseries,  where  good  heed  is  taken  to  their 
irrnuth.  and  physical  development,  until  they  are,  fitted  to 
take,  their  places  at  table,  to  the  satisfaction  of  appreciative 
guests.  For  the  better  oysters,  taken  from  deep  water,  and 
worthy  of  the  immediate  attention  of  the  public,  the  'pungos' 
pay  three  shillings.  In  the  cities  farther  north  they  are  retailed 


I  Hi.    BROAD-BRIM-    INVADE    THK    UUCKSKI.V.-*. 


at  this  rate  by  the  do/en  —  that  number  being  a  standard  allow- 
anre,  for  an  able-bodied  alderman,  of  moderate  stomach  —  an 
Apieins  nnt  an  BoifegabailM.  This  is  the  only  legalized  method 
Virginia  water>  of  their  natives.  By  this  process 
the  poorer  sort  of  people  are  employed  to  gather  the  oyster,  and 
are  thus  compensated  tor  their  labor  —  nothing  being  allowed  for 
the  value  of  the  *  innocent'  victim.  As  it  is  thus  made  a  business 
for  a  certain  portion  of  the  residents,  the  practice  is  tolera- 

f  not  encouraged  ;  though  it  threatens  to  destroy,  in  the 
end,  the  resources  of  the  region  in  respect  to  this  commodity. 
The  clam  is  appropriated  in  the,  same  manner,  to  say  nothing  of 

•  varieties  of  tisli. 

th»-iv  arc  trespassers  who  pursue  another  practice;  who 
seize  with  the  strong  hand  —  who  make  formidable  descents,  at 
unreasi  nahle  hours  am!  .and  rend  and  carry  off  immense 

quantities,  without  leaving  the  usual  toll.  To  these  forays,  the 
sensibilities  and  the  patriotism  of  the  people  are  always  keenly 
alive  ;  and  fearful  issues,  tooth  and  nail,  are  sometimes  the  con- 

•  •ne  occasion.  not  long  ago,  the  Virginians  of  that  region 

got  an  inkling  of  a  formidable  invasion  by  the  Pennsylvanians. 

The  'bale  tires'  were  lighted  accordingly  ;  —  the  horn  was  blown, 

and    a    general    gathering  took   place  of  all  within  striking  dis- 

••.      The  •  <  Md  Dominion'  is  not  easilv  roused,  being  huge  of 

:uid  easily  pacified  by  appeals  to  her  magnitude 

and  greaftnett.      \»\\  may  take   many  liberties  with  her,  so  long 

•  u  do  not  rufllc  her  self-e>teem  —  nay,  you  may  absolutely 

meddle  with    In  r   jmcketbook  if  you  will  do  the  thing  adroitly 

and  without   di.stnrhing  her  .v/Wr/  ;  —  but  beware  how  you  carry 

off!  ^without    pay  ing   the    cu-t..mary    t"ll.      She  can't 

stand  that. 

"(  Mi   this  occasion,  whig  and  democrat,  forgetting  old  snarls. 
came  forth  with  a  Ol.    They  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder, 

the  same  horn  summoned  equally  both  parties  to  the  con- 
flirt.  It  was  a  common  cause,  and  they  promptly  agreed  to  go 
together  to  the  death  for  their  rights  in  o\  sters.  As  in  the  case  of 
the  combatants  of  Gotham  ami  .Jersey,  each  side  had  its  famous 
captains  —  its  Ajaxes  and  Heci-n*.  But  the  Pennsyh  anians 
Buffered  from  a  falling  of  the  heart  before  they  came  to  blows 


30  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

Whether  it  was  that  their  conscientiousness  was  too  active  of 
their  emirate  too  dormant,  they  submitted  before  they  came  to 
blows;  and  the  whole  foraging  party — 'the  entire  swine'  — 
an  entire  tribe  of  that  peaceable  sachem,  Penn  —  in  a  body, 
every  mother's  son  of  them  —  eighty  or  ninety  in  number- 
wore  driven  into  an  extemporary  logpen  at  the  muzzle  of  the 
musket.  Around  this  our  nngry  Virginians  kept  vigilant  watch. 
The  Quaker  that  raised  head  above  the  battlements,  though 
but  to  peep  out  at  the  evening  sunset,  was  warned  backward  with 
a  tap  of  spear  or  shilelah.  They  were  held  thus  trembling  for 
two  or  three  days  in  durance  vile,  until  they  had  paid  heavy 
ransom.  It  required  some  fifteen  hundred  dollars,  cash,  before 
the  foragers  were  released.  This  was  a  famous  haul  for  our 
guid  folk  of  the  Easteni  Shore.  For  some  time  it  had  the  effect 
of  keeping  off  trespassers.  But  when  was  cupidity  ever  quieted 
short  of  having  its  throat  of  greed  cut  at  the  carotid  1  The 
practice  has  been  resumed,  and  our  Eastern  Shore  Virginians 
are  again  beginning  to  growl  and  to  show  their  teeth.  When  I 
was  there  last,  they  were  brushing  up  their  guns,  and  newly 
priming.  They  promise  us  a  new  demonstration  shortly,  both 
parties,  whig  and  democratic,  preparing  to  unite  their  forces  tc 
prevent  their  innocent  young  shellfish  from  being  torn  away 
from  their  beds  at  midnight." 

"And  loving  oysters  as  I  do,  I  am  free  to  say  they  could  not 
peril  their  lives  in  a  more  noble  cause.  Stamped  paper  and  tea 
were  nothing  to  it." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  With  song  and  story  make  the  long  way  short. '' 

THK  sea  never  fails  to  furnish  noble  studies  to  those  who,  by 
frequent  travel,  have  succeeded  in  overcoming  its  annoyai 
But  the  number  is  few  who  feel  reconciled  to  calm  thought  and 
patient  meditation  while  roaming,  at  large  and  lone,  on  its  wil 
derness  of  bosom.     Those  only  who  have  completely  undergone 
that  sea  change,  of  which  Shakspere  tells  us  in  the  "  Tempest." 
can  yield  themselves  fairly  up  to  the  fancies  which  it  inspires  and 
the  subliming  thought  which   it  awakens.      Unhappily,  to  the 
greater  number  of  those  the  subject  has  lost   all  its  freslni 
When  we  have  so  frequently  boxed  the  compass,  that  we  can 

11  I.-.y  hands  upon  old  ocean's  mane, 
And  play  fumiliar  with  hig  hoary  locks," 

he  forfeits  all  his  mysteries. 

It  is  surprising  to  note  how  little  there  is  really  visible  in  the 
jrn-at  deeps  to  those  who  go  down  frequently  upon  the  w.r 
To  such  eyes  they  even  lose  their  vastness,  their  vagueness,  the 
immensity  which  baffles  vision,  and  fills  the  mind  with  its  most 
impressive  i«leas  of  eternity.  Your  "Old  Salt"  is  a  notorious 
skrjitie.  He  wears  his  forefinger  perpetually  upon  the  side  of 
his  rmse.  He  is  not  to  he  amused  with  fancies  and  chimeras. 
II»-  has  outgrown  wholly  his  sense  of  wonder,  and  his  thought 
of  the  sea  is  somewhat  allied  with  the  contemptuous,  as  was  that 
of  the  Mississippian  for  the  hn>wn  hear  whom  he  had  whipped 
in  single  combat.  As  for  marvels  and  mysteries  in  the  creature 
—  beautM'N  .«f  splendor  or  grandeur — these  wholly  elude  his 
thoughts  and  eyes.  If  he  appreciates  the  sea  at  all,  it  is  solely 
because  of  its  sharpening  •  •li'.-.-t  upon  his  appetite! 

Most  of  those  wayfarers  whom  you  meet  often  upon  the  route 
belong  to  tins  order.  You  will  find  them  at  all  timei  peering 
into  the  larder.  In  their  sleep,  they  dream  of  it,  and  you  will 


3'J  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

hear  broken  speeches  from  their  lips  which  show  their  memories 
still  busy  with  yesterday's  feast,  or  their  anticipations  preparing 
for  that  of  the  morrow.  The  steward  and  cook  aboard-ship  are 
the  first  persons  whose  acquaintance  they  make.  These  they 
bribe  with  shillings  and  civilities.  You  will  scarcely  open  your 
in  the  morning,  ere  you  will  see  these  "  hail  fellows"  with 
toast  and  tankard  in  their  clutches  ;  a  bowl  of  coffee  and  a  crack 
er  is  the  initial  appetizer,  with  possibly  a  tass  of  brandy  in  the 
purple  beverage,  as  a  lacer.  Then  you  see  them  hanging  about 
the  breakfast  table,  where  they  take  care  to  plant  themselves 
in  the  near  neighborhood  of  certain  of  the  choicest  dishes.  All 
their  little  arrangements  are  made  before  you  get  to  the  table, 
and  there  will  be  a  clever  accumulation  of  good  things  about  the 
plates  of  these  veterans,  in  the  shape  of  roll  and  egg,  etc.,  which 
would  seem  destined  to  remind  the  proprietor,  in  the  language 
of  warning  which  was  spoken  daily  (though  with  a  far  different 
object)  to  the  monarch  of  the  Medes  and  Persians — "  Reim-m- 
ber,  thoti  art  mortal.'' 

ThU  is  a  fact  which  our  veterans  of  the  high  seas  never  forget. 
They  cany  within  them  a  sufficient  monitor  which  ever  cries, 
like  the  (laughter  of  the  horse-leech,  "  Give !  Give!"  They 
have  no  qualms  of  conscience  or  of  bowels  ;  and  it  seems  to  do 
them  rare  ^"<>il  tn  behold  the  qualms  of  others.  It  would  seem 
that  they  rejoiced  in  these  exhibitions,  simply  as  they  are,  as 
sured  by  these,  that  the  larder  is  destined  to  no  premature  in- 
vaMon  on  the  part  of  the  sufferers. 

I  have  often  looked  upon  this  class  of  travellers  —  not  with 
envy.  H.-aveu  forefend  !  —  though  it  would  have  rejoiced  me  fre 
quently,  at  sea,  to  have  possessed  some  of  their  immunities  — 
that  rare  insensibility,  for  example,  in  the  regions  of  diaphragm 
and  abdomen,  which,  if  une.xerci-ed  for  appetite,  might  at  least 
sutler  other  sensibilities  to  be  free  for  exercise. 

lint  it  has  provoked  rny  wonder,  if  not  my  admiration,  that 
inflexible  stolidity  of  nature,  which  enables  the  mere  mortal  so 
••ntiuly  to  obtain  the  ascendency  over  the  spiritual  man.  Our 
gourmand  sees  no  ocean  waste  around  him  —  follows  no  tumbling 
billows  with  his  eye  —  watches  not,  with  straining  eagerness, 
where  the  cloudg  and  the  waters  descend  and  rise,  as  it  were  in 
an  embrace  of  passion.  Sunrise  only  tells  him  of  bis  coffee  and 


OLD    SKA-Ln«,-. 


cracker,  MM.  MI   of  lunch.  sui^et    of  tea,  and    tin1    rarely  sublimed 

fires  of  the  moonlight,  gleaming  from  a  thousand  waves,  suggest 

only  n  period  of  repose,  in  which  digestion  goes  on  without   any 

•  •f  that    great    engine  which    he    lias   all  day  been 

packing    with    fuel.      Tell    him    of  porpoi*e    and    shark,   and    his 

prayer  is  that  the\  taken,      lie  ha-  n<>  ><-Mipl<  -  to  try  a 

.  from  the  rilis  of  the  shark,  though  it  mav  ha\  o  -wallowed 

his  own  grandmother.      Of  tin-  porpoise  he  has  hoard  as  tin 

and  the  idea  of  a  roast  of  it,  is  quite  sufficient  to  justify  the 
painstaking  with  which  lie  urge-  upon  the  forcma-t  man  to  take 
his  place  at  the  prow,  in  waiting,  with  hi-  harpoon.  Nay,  let  a 
school  of  dolphins  he  seen  beneath  the  bows.  darting  along  with 
graceful  and  playful  sweep,  in  gold  and  purple,  glancing  through 
the  billows,  like  <o  many  rainbows  of  the  deep,  lie  thinks 
of  them  unly  as  a  fry  —  an  apology  for  whiting  and  cavalli.  of 
which  he  sighs  with  the  tendere-t  recollection.-,  and  for  which 
h«-  is  always  anxious  to  find  a  substitute.  I  have  already  ob- 
•M!  that  we  have  two  or  three  specimens  of  thi»  xmiis  now 
on  board  the  Marion. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  our  fair  companion,  "but  that  steam 
ha*  robbed  the  sea  very  equally  of  it-  charms  and  terrors." 

"Ah!  \\rha\e  DOW  no  10ng  voyage*  V'-ur  COMtWhti  trav 
elling  seldom  take-  you  from  sight  of  land,  and  y«»n  scarcely 
step  from  the  pier  head  in  one  citv.  before  you  begin  to  look  out 
for  the  lighthouse  of  another.  Kven  when  crossing  the  great 
pond,  you  in  rapidly,  and  in  such  mighty  %.•-<••!•.,  that 

you  cany  a  small  city  with  you  —  a  community  adequate  to  all 
your  social  want*  —  and  are  thus  made  comparatively  indifferent 
to  \oiir  absolute  whereabouts." 

"Well,  there  is  something  pie.  ;id  one.  "to  be  able  to 

fling  your-elf  into  vour  berth  in  one  city  only  to  awaken  in  an 
other.  I  confr--  that  it  take-  awav  all  motive  to  thought  and 
sin  %••;,.  IV"  to  look  abroad  and  about  in  such 

short    periods.      There   is  little  to  amuse  or  interest,  ti 

hip's  decks  for  a  night,  in  the  face  of  smoke  and  steam, 
jostling  with  strange  people  wrapped  in  cloaks,  whom  you  do  not 
care  to  know,  as  it  is  not  probable  that  you  are  ever  to  meet 
again  when  you  part  to-inoi*  I  V  'i  nin-t  be  long  and  lonely 
on  the  seas,  before  the  seas  will  become  grateful  in  your  sight 


34  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

and  reveal  their  wtnulers.  Steam  has  removed  this  necessity 
and  tints  taken  away  all  the  wonders  of  the  deep.  You  now  see 
no  my  stories  in  the  surging  hillows  —  hear  no  spiritual  voices 
n  the  shrouds.  The  spell  has  heen  taken  from  the  waters  — 
the  trident  is  hroken  in  the  hands  of  the  great  Triton.  Steam,  a 
mightier  magic,  lias  pulled  away,  as  by  a  breath,  a  whole  world 
of  unsubstantial,  but  very  beautiful  fable.  The  ocean  is  now  as 
patient  as  the  \\ild  horse  under  the  lasso  —  subdued  to  the  will 
of  a  rider  who  was  never  known  to  spare  whip  or  spur." 

"  The  worst  feature  in  this  improved  navigation  is  its  unsocial 
influence.  It  deprives  yon  of  all  motive  to  break  down  those 
idle  little  barriers  of  convention  which  are  apt  to  fetter  the  very 
best  minds,  and  cause  a  forfeiture  of  some  of  their  sweetest  hu 
manities.  You  seek  to  know  none  of  the  virtues  of  your  com 
panions,  and  certainly  never  care  to  put  in  exercise  your  own. 
One  ceases  to  be  amiable  in  a  short  voyage.  A  long  one,  on 
the  contrary,  brings  out  all  that  is  meritorious  as  well  in  your 
self  as  your  shipmate.  A  sense  of  mutual  dependence  is  vastly 
promotive  of  good  fellowship. —  Then  you  see  something  of  one 
another,  and  hear  something  of  the  world.  People  show  what 
"they  are,  and  tell  you  what  they  have  seen;  and  intimacies, 
thus  formed,  have  ripened  into  friendships,  which  no  after  events 
have  been  able  to  rupture.  Commend  me  to  the  ancient  slow- 
and-easv  packet  ships  that  left  yon  time  for  all  these  things;  — 
that  went  between  Charleston  and  New  York,  and  never  felt 
any  impatience  to  get  to  the  end  of  their  journey;  —  that  took 
e\erv  advantage  afforded  by  a  calm  to  nap  drowsily  on  the  bo- 
s"Mi  of  the  broad  element  in  which  they  loved  to  float ;  —  and 
rocked  la/ilv  upon  the  great  billows,  as  if  coquetting  with  the 
itlier  than  using  them  for  progress." 

••  There  was  leisure  then  for  study  and  philosophy  and  poetry; 
nav,  love-making  was  then  an  easy  and  agreeable  employment, 
.(  b  a<  had  tlie  -tomach  for  it.  It  will  not  be  easy  for  me 
to  forget  my  thousand  ex periences  of  the  tender  passion  on  such 
voyages  —  by  moonlight  and  starlight  —  'with  one  sweet  spirit 
for  my  minister/  gazing  together  on  the  great  mirror-like  ocean, 
or  up  into  the  persuasive  heavens,  till  we  drank  in  floods  of  ten 
derness,  from  a  myriad  of  losing  eyes." 

"  Ah  !"  cried  Uuyckman  archly,  "  one  is  reminded  of  Moore — 


THE    PILGRIMS    CO.MM  8*> 

"'Ah  '   could  yon  hoiuvn  but  8p«-;ik  ;ts  w-ll. 

As  at  i  :  see, 

Ah!  think  xvliat  fairs  'twouM  havp  tn  tell, 
Of  wandering  vnuth  like  mr.' 

"By  the  way,  why  should  we  not  have  some  tales  of  wan 
dering  youth  to-night  —  and  why  not  some  songs  too.  Miss 
Burroughs,  it  has  not  ex-aped  my  very  curious  eye  that  there  i« 
a  guitar  among  your  luggage.  May  I  hope  that  you  will  suffer 
Ine  to  bring  it  \ 

The  lady  hesitated.      I  interposed  : — 

"  Oh  !  surely  ;  we  must  not  suffer  Mich  a  night  of  beauty,  such 
of  calm,  such  a  mild  delicious  evening,  to  pass  unemployed, 
aid  in  the  only  appropriate  fashion.  We  are  a  little  world  to 
our-elves —  pilgrims  to  one  Canterbury,  and  we  may  well  bor 
row  a  leaf  from  Boccacio  and  a  lesson  from  Chaucer.  You  will 
sing  for  us,  and  we  shall  strive  to  requite  yon,  each  after  his 
own  fashion.  Here  are  several  whom  1  know  to  he  capable  ol 
pleasant  contribution  in  the  way  of  song  and  story,  and  my 
friend  Duyckman  can  hardly  refuse  to  follow  your  example,  as 
he  suggests  it.  In  your  ear,  I  may  whisper  that  he  is  full  of  ro 
mances,  and  lias  a  whole  budget  of  legends  wrought  out  of  Pro 
vencal  and  Troubadour  history. " 
H  !  Kie  !  Honor  bright." 

The  lady  now  gracefully  consented. 

"  The  temptation  is  too  great  to  he  resisted.  My  scruples 
yield  to  yonr  persuasions.  Will  you  order  the  guitar  .'" 

It   \\as    brought.      \\'e  had    the  music,  but  not   alone.      To  the 

:  delight  of  all   parties,  the  fair  charmer  gave  us  her  lyrics 

woven    in    with    an    historical    narrative — a    romance   in    itself, 

uhich.  in  a  brief  and    pleasant    introduction,  she  mentioned   that 

she  had  gathered  herself  fiom  the  lips  <>f  the  celebrated  General 

of  Venezuela,  who  was  only  la-t  year  in  the  country.      I 

must  deliver  :•  .as  possible  as  it  came  from  the 

lady's  lips,  not  forgetting  to  mention  that,  in  the  lyrical  port: 
the    guitar  contributed    the   accompaniment,  and    the  effect  of 
the  pieces,  thus  delivered,  was  singularly  dramatic  ami  eilective. 

Our  circle  contracted  about  the  fair  raconteur,  silence  ful. 
and  i  »-ed  attention,  and  she  began. 


SOUTHWARD    HO! 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  MAID  OF  BOGOTA. 
CHAPTER     I  . 

WHK.NKVKR  the  several  nations  of  the  earth  which  have 
achieved  their  deliverance  from  misrule  and  tyranny,  shall  point, 
as  they  each  may,  to  the  fair  women  who  have  taken  active  part 
in  the  cause  of  liberty,  and  by  their  smiles  and  services  have 
contributed  in  no  measured  degree  to  the  great  objects  of  na 
tional  defence  and  deliverance,  it  will  be  with  a  becoming  and 
just  pride  only  that  the  Colombians  shall  point  to  their  virgin 
martyr,  commonly  known  among  them  as  La  Pola,  the  Maid  of 
Bogota.  With  the  history  of  their  struggle  for  freedom  her 
story  will  always  be  intimately  associated  ;  her  tragical  fate, 
due  solely  to  the  cause  of  her  country,  being  linked  with  all  the 
touching  interest  of  the  im^t  romantic  adventure.  Her  spirit 
seemed  to  be  woven  of  the  finest  materials.  She  was  gentle, 
exquisitively  sensitive,  and  capable  of  the  most  true  and  tender 
attachments.  Her  mind  was  one  of  rarest  endowments,  touched 
to  the  finest  issues  of  eloquence,  and  gifted  with  all  the  powers 
of  the  improvisatrice  ;  while  her  courage  and  patriotism  seem  to 
have  been  cast  in  those  heroic  moulds  of  antiquity  from  which 
came  the  Cornelias  and  Deborahs  of  famous  memory.  Well 
had  it  been  for  her  country  had  the  glorious  model  which  she 
bestowed  upon  her  people  been  held  in  becoming  homage  by 
the  race  with  which  her  destiny  was  cast  —  a  race  masculine 
only  in  exterior,  and  wanting  wholly  in  that  necessary  strength 
of  soul  which,  rising  to  the  due  appreciation  of  the  blessings  of 
national  freedom,  is  equally  prepared  to  make,  for  its  attainment, 
every  necessary  sacrifice  of  self.  And  yet  our  heroine  was  but 
a  child  in  years  —  a  lovely,  tender,  feeble  creature,  scarcely 
fifteen  years  of  age.  But  the  soul  grows  rapidly  to  maturity  in 
some  countries,  and,  in  the  case  of  women,  it  is  always  great  in 
its  youth,  if  greatness  is  ever  destined  to  be  its  possession. 

Dona  Apolinaria  Zalabariata  —  better  known  by  the  name 
of  La  Pola — was  a  young  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  good  family 
of  Bogota,  who  was  distinguished  at  an  early  period,  as  well  for 
her  great  gifts  of  beauty  as  of  intellect.  She  was  but  a  child 


BOLIVAR.  37 

wh,-n  B«.livar  first  commenced  his  struggles  with  the  Spanish 
authorities,  \\ith  tho  ostensible  object  of  freeing  his  country  from 
their  oppressive  tyrannies.  It  is  not  within  our  province  to  dis- 
nm  the  merits  of  liis  pretensions  as  a  deliverer,  or  his  courage 
and  military  skill  as  a  hero.  The  judgment  of  the  world  and 
of  time  lias  fairlv  set  at  re-t  tlm>e  specious  and  hypocritical 
claims,  which,  for  a  season,  presumed  to  place  him  on  the  pedes 
tal  with  our  Washington.  We  now  know  that  he  was  not  only 
.iish,  l.ut  a  very  ordinary  man  —  not  ordinary,  perhaps, 
in  the  sense  of  intellect,  for  that  would  be  impossible  in  the  case 
of  one  who  was  M»  long  able  to  maintain  his  eminent  position, 
and  to  >uect M-d  in  his  capricious  progresses,  in  spite  of  inferior 
•  .1  a  -iii'j-ulai  deficiency  of  the  heroic  faculty.  Hut  his 
ambition  was  the  vulgar  ambition,  and,  if  possible,  something 
still  inferior.  It  contemplated  his  personal  wants  alone;  it 
lacked  all  the  elevation  of  purpose  which  is  the  great  essential 
of  patriotism,  and  was  wholly  wanting  in  that  magnanimity  of 
soul  which  delights  in  the  sacrifice  of  self,  whenever  such  sacri 
fice  promises  the  safety  of  the  single  great  purpose  which  it 
professes  to  accomplish. 

Hut  we  are  not  now  to  consider  Bolivar,  the  deliverer,  as  one 
whose  place  in  the  pantheon  has  already  been  determined  by 
the  unerring  judgment  of  posterity.  We  are  to  behold  him  only 
with  those  eyes  in  which  he  w;us  seen  by  the  devoted  followers 
to  whom  he  brought,  or  appeared  to  bring,  the  deliverance  for 
which  they  yearned.  It  is  with  the  eyes  of  the  passionate 
young  girl,  La  Pola,  the  beautiful  and  gifted  child,  whose  dream 
of  country  perpetually  craved  the  republican  condition  of  ancient 
Koine,  in  the  days  of  its  .simplicity  and  virtue;  it  is  with  her 
fancy  and  admiration  that  w»-  are  to  crown  the  idtal  Holivai, 
till  we  acknowledge  him,  as  he  appears  to  her,  the  Washington 
of  the  Colombians,  eager  only  to  emulate  the  patriotism,  ami  to 
achieve  like  M  with  his  great  model  of  the  northern 

confederacy. 

Her  feelings  and  opinions,  with  regard  to  the  Liberator,  were 
those  of  her  family.  Her  father  was  a  resident  of  Bogota,  A 
man  of  large  possessions  and  considerable  intellectual  acquire 
ments.  He  gradually  passed  from  a  secret  admiration  of  Bolivar 
to  a  warm  sympathy  with  his  progress,  and  an  active  support  — 


38 

'  as  In-  ibired.  living  in  a  city  under  immediate  and  despotic 
Spanish  rule —  of  all  his  objects.  He  followed  witb  eager  • 
tin*  fortunes  of  the  chief,  as  they  fluctuated  between  defeat  and 
victory  in  other  provinces  waiting  anxiously  tlie  moment  when 
the  success  and  policy  of  the  struggle  should  bring  deliverance, 
in  turn,  to  the  gates  of  Bogota.  Without  taking  up  arms  him 
self,  he  contributed  secretly  from  his  own  resources  to  supplying 
the  cotters  of  Bolivar  with  treasure,  even  when  his  operations 
were  remote  —  and  his  daughter  was  the  agent  through  whose 
unsuspected  ministry  the  money  was  conveyed  to  the  several 
emi>sarie.s  who  were  commissioned  to  receive  it.  The  duty  was 
equally  delicate  and  dangerous,  requiring  great  prudence  and 
circumspection  ;  and  the  skill,  address,  and  courage,  with  which 
the  child  succeeded  in  the  execution  of  her  trusts,  would  furnish 
a  frequent  lesson  for  older  heads,  and  the  stemer  and  the  bolder 

La  Pola  was  but  fourteen  years  old  when  she  obtained  her 
first  glimpse  of  the  great  man  in  whose  cause  she  had  already 
been  employed,  and  of  whose  deeds  and  distinctions  she  had 
heard  so  much.  By  the  language  of  the  Spanish  tyranny  which 
swaved  with  iron  authority  over  her  native  city,  she  beard  him 
denounced  and  execrated  as  a  rebel  and  marauder,  for  whom 
an  ignominious  death  was  already  decreed  by  the  despotic  vice 
roy.  This  language,  from  such  lips,  was  of  itself  calculated 
to  raise  its  object  favorably  in  her  enthusiastic  sight.  By  the 
patriots,  whom  she  had  been  accustomed  to  love  and  venerate, 
she  heard  the  same  name  breathed  always  in  whispers  of  hope 
and  ail'ection,  and  loudly  commended,  with  tearful  blessings,  to 
the  watchful  care  of  Ilea\eii. 

She  was  M><>n  to  behold  with  her  own  eyes  this  individual 
thus  equally  <listingui>heol  by  hate  and  homage  in  her  hearing. 
Bolivar  apprized  his  friends  in  Bogota  that  he  should  visit  them 
in  .M-cret.  That  province,  ruled  with  a  fearfully  strong  hand  by 
Zamano,  the  viceroy,  had  not  yet  ventured  to  declare  itself  for 
the  republic.  It  was  necessary  to  operate  with  caution;  and  it 
:io  small  peril  which  Bolivar  necessarily  incurred,  in  pene 
trating  to  its  capital,  and  laying  his  snares,  and  fomenting  in 
surrection,  beneath  the  very  hearth-stone.-  of  the  tyrant.  It  was 
to  La  Pola's  hands  that  the  messenger  of  the  Liberator  conti'lcd 


BOLIVAR   IN    BI)I;HT\.  39 

the    missives   tlint    communicated  tin's   impuitant    intelligence   to 

li or  father.      She  little  knew  the  contents  of  tlio  billet  which  she 

carried  him  in  safety,  nor  did  he  confide  them  to  the  child.     He 

himself  did  n<>t  dream  of  the  precocious  extent  of  th;it  enthusiasm 

which  she  felt  ahno>t  equally  for  the  common  cause,  and  for  the, 

person  of  its  great  advocate  and  champion.     Her  father  simply 

-•d    her   care    and    diligence,  rewarded    her  with   his  fondest 

— cs.  and  then  proceeded  with  all  quiet  despatch  to  make  his 

preparations  for  the  secret  reception  of  the  deliverer. 

It  was  at  midnight,  and  while  a  thunder-storm  was  raging, 
that  he  entered  the  city,  making1  his  way,  agreeably  to  previous 
arrangement,  and  under  select  guidance,  into  the  inner  apart 
ments  of  the  house  of  Zalabariata.  A  meeting  of  the  conspira 
tors —  for  such  they  were  —  of  head  men  among  the  patri'  • 
Bogota,  had  Keen  contemplated  for  his  reception.  Several  of 
them  were  accordingly  in  attendance  when  he  came.  These 
were  per>ons  v.  hose  sentiments  were  well-known  to  he  friendly 
to  the  cau-e  ..f  liberty,  who  had  suffered  by  the  hands,  or  wen- 
pursued  by  the  suspicions  of  Zamano,  and  who,  it  was  naturally 
supposetl,  would  be  engerlv  alive  to  every  opportunity  of  sha 
king  oif  the  rule  of  die  oppre- 

But  patriotism,  as  a  philosophic  sentiment,  to  be  indulged 
after  a  good  dinner,  and  discu-sed  phlegmaticnlly,  if  not  classi 
cally,  over  sherry  and  cigars,  is  a  very  different  sort  of  thing 
from  patriotism  as  a  principle  of  action,  to  be  prosecuted  as  a 
du'y,  at  every  peril,  instantly  and  always,  to  the  death  if  need 
be.  (  hir  patriots  at  Bogota  were  but  too  frequently  of  the  con 
templative,  the  philosophical  order.  Patriotism  with  them  was 
rather  a  subject  for  eloquence  than  Use.  They  could  recall 
•  ipian  histories  of  Greece  and  Rome  which  furnish  MB 
with  ideals  lather  than  facts,  and  sigh  for  nanio  like  those  of 
Oato,  and  Brutus,  and  Aristides.  But  more  than  this  did  not 
to  enter  tlu-ir  imaginations  as  at  all  necessary  to  assert 
the  character  which  it  pleased  them  to  profess,  or  maintain  the 
reputation  which  they  had  pn-sprrtivelv  acquired  for  the  \ 
commendable  virtue  which  >.  u^tiiuteil  their  ordinary  theme. 
Bolivar  found  them  cold.  A«  ust.,nied  to  overthrow  and  usur 
pation,  the}'  were,  now  slow  to  venture  property  and  life  upon 
the  predictions  and  promises  of  one  who,  however  perfect  in 


40  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

their  estimation  as  a  patriot,  had  yet  Buffered  from  most  capri 
cious  fortunes.  His  past  history,  indeed,  except  for  its  patriotism, 
offered  but  very  doubtful  guarantees  in  favor  of  the  enterprise 
to  which  they  were  invoked. 

Bolivar  was  artful  and  ingenious.  He  had  considerable  pow 
ers  of  eloquence  —  wa<  ^JMHMOUS  and  persuasive;  had  an  oily,  and 
In-witching  tongue,  like  Belial ;  and,  if  not  altogether  capable  of 
making  the  worse  appear  the  better  cause,  could  at  least  so  shape 
the  aspi-rts  <>f  evil  fortune,  that,  to  the  unsuspicious  nature,  they 
would  seem  to  be  the  very  results  aimed  at  by  the  most  deliber 
ate  arrangement  and  resolve. 

But  Bolivar,  on  this  occasion,  was  something  more  than  inge 
nious  and  pervasive  ;  he  was  warmly  earnest,  and  passionately 
eloquent.  In  truth,  he  was  excited  much  beyond  his  wont.  He 
was  stung  to  indignation  by  a  sense  of  disappointnent.  He  had 
calculated  largely  on  this  meeting,  and  it  promised  now  to  be  a 
failure.  He  had  anticipated  the  eager  enthusiasm  of  a  host  of 
brave  and  noble  spirits,  ready  to  fling  out  the  banner  of  freedom 
to  the  winds,  and  cast  the  scabbard  from  the  sword  for  ever. 
Instead  of  this,  he  found  but  a  little  knot  of  cold,  irresolute  men, 
thinking  only  of  the  perils  of  life  which  they  should  incur,  and 
the  forfeiture  and  loss  of  property  which  might  accrue  from  any 
hazardous  experiments. 

Bolivar  spoke  to  them  in  language  less  artificial  and  much 

more  impassioned  than  was  his  wont.     He  was  a  man  of  impulse 

rather  than  of  thought  or  principle,  and,  once  aroused,  the  in- 

•  ;  fire  of  a  southern  sun  seemed  to  burn  fiercely  in  all  his 

words  and  actions. 

His  speech  was  heard  by  other  ears  than  those  to  which  it 
was  addressed.  The  shrewd  mind  of  La  Pola  readily  conjec 
tured  that  the  meeting  at  her  father's  house,  at  midnight,  and 
under  peculiar  circumstances,  contemplated  some  extraordinary 
object.  She  was  aware  that  a  tall,  mysterious  stranger  had 
<-d  through  the  court,  under  the  immediate  conduct  of  her 
father  himself.  Her  instinct  divined  in  this  stranger  the  person 
of  the  deliverer,  and  her  heart  would  not  suffer  her  to  lose  the 
words,  or,  if  possible  to  obtain  it,  to  forego  the  bight  of  the  great 
object  '>f  its  patriotic  worship.  Besides,  she  had  a  right  to  know 


IM!'k<»V\  I-ATKK  L.  ll 

and  to  see.     She  was  of  the  party,  and  had  done  them  service 
She  was  yet  to  do  them  more. 

Concealed  in  an  adjoining  apartment  —  a  sort  of  oratory,  con 
nected  by  a  gallery  with  the  chamber  in  which  the  conspirators 
were  assembled-  the  WAI  able  to  hear  the  earnest  arguments 
and  passionate  remonstrances  of  the  Liberator.  They  confirmed 
«11  her  previous  admiration  of  his  genius  and  character.  She 
felt  with  indignation  the  humiliating  position  which  the  men  of 
Bogota  held  in  his  eyes.  She  heard  their  pleas  and  scruples, 
and  listened  with  a  bitter  scorn  to  the  thousand  suggestions  of 
prudence, the  thousand  calculations  of  doubt  and  caution,  with 
which  timidity  seeks  to  avoid  precipitating  a  crisis.  She  could 
and  endure  no  longer.  The  spirit  of  the  iinprovvisatrice 
upon  her.  Was  it  also  that  of  fate  and  a  higher  Provi 
dence  ?  She  seized  the  guitar,  of  which  she  was  the  perfect 
mistress,  and  sung  even  as  her  soul  counselled  and  the  exigency 
of  the  event  demanded.  Our  translation  of  her  lyrical  overflow 
is  necessarily  a  cold  and  feeble  one. 

It  was  a  dream  of  freedom, 

A  mocking  dream,  though  bright, 
Thiit  shown!  the  men  of  Bogota 

All  nrniini:  fur  tin-  tljrht ; 
All  eager  tor  the  hour  ttmt  wakes 

The  thunders  of  redeeming  war, 
And  rushing  forth,  with  glittering  steel. 

To  join  the  hand*  of  Bolivia  . 

My  toul,  I  wid,  it  can  not  be 

That  Bogota  sh..ll  he  denied 
Her  Aiinmendi  too  — her  chief 

To  pluck  her  honor  up  and  pride  ; 
The  wild  Llanero  honnts  his  brnvcs 

That,  stung  with  patriot  wrath  and  shame, 
Rimhi-d  rodly  to  the  realm  of  grnvei, 

And  rose,  through  hloixl  and  death,  to  fnm«. 

How  glnd  mine  ear  with  other  sounds, 

Of  freemen  worthy  the»e  that  tell  ! 
Ritas,  who  felt  Carmccas'  wounds, 

And  for  her  hope  find  triumph  fell; 
And  that  young  hero,  well  1-eloNed, 

Ginddat,  Mill  a  mime  fur  song; 
Mmrrro,  Piar,  dying  soon, 

Bu.'Tur  the  future   living  Jong. 


42  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

Oh  .  could  we  stir  with  other  names, 

The  cold,  deaf  hearts  that  hear  us  now, 
How  would  it  bring  a  thousand  shames, 

In  fire,  to  each  Bogotan'g  brow  ! 
How  clap  in  pride  Grenada's  hands, 

How  plows  Venezuela's  heart, 
And  how,  through  Cartagena's  lands, 

A  thousand  chiefs  and  heroes  start. 

Sodeno,  I'ae/,  ID  !   they  rush, 

Each  with  his  wild  and  Cossack  rout 
A  moment  feels  the  fearful  hush, 

A  moment  hears  the  fearful  shout! 
They  heed  no  luck  of  arts  and  arms, 

But  all  tJn-ir  country's  perils  feel, 
And,  sworn  for  freedom,  bravely  break, 

The  glittering  legions  of  Castile. 

I  see  the  gallant  Roxas  clasp 

The  towering  banner  of  her  sway; 
And  Monagas,  with  fearful  grasp, 

Plucks  down  the  chief  that  stops  the  way  ; 
The  reckless  Urdaneta  rides, 

Where  riven  tin-  i-arth  the  iron  hail; 
Nor  long  the  Spanish  foemaii  hide*, 

The  strokes  of  old  Zarazu's  flail ! 
Oh,  generous  heroe-*,  how  ye  rise  ! 

How  plow  your  states  with  equal  fires' 
Tis  there  Valencia's  banner  flies, 

And  there  Cumaila's  soul  aspires; 
There,  on  each  hand,  from  eaat  to  west, 

From  Oronook  to  Panama, 
Each  province  bares  its  noble  hrea-t, 

Each  hero  — save  in  Bogota! 

At  the  first  sudden  gush  of  the  music  from  within,  the  father 
of  the  danis.-l  started  to  his  foot,  and,  with  confusion  in  his  coun 
tenance,  was  about  to  leave  the  apartment.  But  Bolivar  arrested 
liis  footsteps,  and  in  a  whisper  commanded  him  to  be  silent  and 
remain.  The  conspirators,  startled  if  not  alarmed,  were  com 
pelled  to  listen.  Bolivar  did  so  with  a  pleased  attention.  Ho 
was  passionately  fond  of  music,  and  this  was  of  a  sort  at  once 
to  appeal  to  his  objects  and  his  taste.  His  eye  kindled  as  the 
song  proceeded.  His  heart  rose  with  an  exulting  sentiment. 
The  moment,  indeed,  embodied  one  of  his  greatest  triumphs — 
the  tribute  of  a  pure,  unsophisticated  soul,  inspired  by  Heuven 


BOLIVAR'S  APPEAL.  4ft 

with  the  happiest  and   highest   endowments,  and   by  earth  witb 
the  noblest  sentiments  of  pride  awl  country.      When    the  music 
.1.  /.--.labariata  was  about  to  apologize  and  to  explain,  but 
Bolivar  airaiu  gently  and  affectionately  arrested  liis  utterance. 

"  Fear  nothing.''  said  lie.  "  Indeed,  why  should  you  fear  ?  I 
am  iu  the  irivater  danger  here,  if  there  be  danger  for  any;  and 
1  \v..uld  as  xoM-i  place  my  life  in  the  keeping  of  that  noble 
damsel,  as  in  the  arms  of  my  mother.  Let  her  remain,  my 
friend ;  let  her  hear  and  see  all  ;  and  above,  do  not  attempt  to 
apologize  for  her.  She  is  my  ally.  Would  that  she  could  make 
these  men  of  Bogota  feel  with  herself — feel  as  she  makes  even 
me  to  feel." 

The  eloquence,  of  the  Liberator  received  a  new  impulse  from 

that  of  the  improvisaf  rice.      He  renewed   his  arguments  and  en- 

in  a  different  spirit.      He  denounced,  in  yet    bolder  lan- 

_e  than   before,  that   wretched   pusillanimity  which,  quite   as 

much,   he    asserted,  as   the    tyranny   of   the   .Spaniard,  was    tho 

under   which    the    liberties    of   the   country    groaned    and 

:ed. 

••  And   now,  I    a-k."  he.   continued,  passionately,  "men  of  Bo- 
illy  purpose  to   deny  yourselves    all    share    in   the 
-I'rvand  peril  of  the  effort  which  is  for  your  own  emancipation. 
Are  your   brethren  of   the  other   provinces  to  maintain    the   con 
flict  in  your  behalf,  while,  with  folded  hands,  you    submit,  doing 
nothing    for   yourselves?      Will    you    not    lift   the    banner   ; 
Will    you  not  draw  -word    in   your  own    honor,  and    the  del- 
of  your  l'  :id  families?      Talk  not  to  B  .  et  contri 

bution*.      It  is  your  manhood,  n»t    your   nn'iiey,  that    i-    needful 
-access.      And   can   you  withhold    yourselves  while    \  «\\   pr«- 
fcO  hunger  after  that    liberty  for  which  other  men  are  f :  • 
peiil    all  —  manhood,    money,    lit''1,    hope,  everything    but    honor 
and   the  sense  of  freedom.      But    why   speak   of  peril  in    : 
Per  re.     Jt  is  the  inevitable  child  of  life,  natural  to 

all  conditions  —  to  repose  a«  well  as  action,  —  to  the  obsc 
which  never  goes  abroad,  n*  well   as  to  that  adventu.-e  which 
for  ever  seeks  the   field.     You   incur  no  more   peril   in   openly 
braving    your    tyrant,   all    '  :ie    man,   than    you    do 

thus  tamelv  sitting  bfnenth  hi*.  \nd   trembling  for  ever 

let»t  his  capricious   will   may  slav  as  it  en*lffve*.      Re   von    hut 


44  SOUTHWARD    HO  ' 

true  to  yourselves  —  openly  true  —  and  the  danger  disappears 
as  the  night-mists  that  speed  from  before  the  rising  sun.  There 
is  little  that  (It-serves  the  name  of  peril  in  the  issue  which  lies 
before  us.  We  are  more  than  a  match  —  united,  and  filled  with 
the  proper  spirit — for  all  the  forces  that  Spain  can  send  against 
us.  It  is  in  our  coldness  that  she  warms  —  in  our  want  of  unity 
that  she  finds  strength.  But  even  were  we  not  superior  to  her 
in  numbers  —  oven  were  the  chances  all  wholly  and  decidedly 
against  us  —  1  still  can  not  see  how  it  is  that  you  hesitate  to 
•Iraw  the  sword  in  so  sacred  a  strife — a  strife  which  consecrates 
the  effort,  and  claims  Heaven's  sanction  for  success.  Are  your 
souls  so  subdued  by  servitude,  are  you  so  accustomed  to  bonds 
and  tortures,  that  these  no  longer  irk  and  vex  your  daily  con 
sciousness  ?  Are  you  so  wedded  to  inaction  that  you  cease  to 
feel  ]  Is  it  the  frequency  of  the  punishment  that  has  made  you 
callous  to  the  ignominy  and  the  pain  ?  Certainly,  your  viceroy 
gives  you  frequent  occasion  to  grow  reconciled  to  any  degree  of 
hurt  and  degradation.  Daily  you  behold,  and  I  hear,  of  the 
exactions  of  this  tyrant  —  of  the  cruelties  and  the  murders  to 
which  he  accustoms  you  in  Bogota.  Hundreds  of  your  friends 
and  kinsmen,  even  now,  lie  rotting  in  the  common  prisons,  de 
nied  equally  your  sympathies  and  every  show  of  justice,  perish 
ing  daily  under  the  most  cruel  privations.  Hundreds  have  per 
ished  by  tlii-  and  other  modes  of  torture,  and  the  gallows  and 
garote  .see.m  never  to  be  unoccupied.  Was  it  not  the  bleaching 
skeleton  of  the  veneraMc  llermuno,  whom  I  well  knew  for  his 

oin  and  patriotism,  which  I  beheld,  even  as  I  entered,  hang 
ing  in  chains  over  the  gateway  of  your  city  ?  Was  he  not  the 
victim  of  his  wealth  and  love  of  country  I  Who  among  you  is 
secure  .'  He  dared  hut  to  deliver  Jiimxdt' as  a  man  —  and,  as  he 

-uil'eied  to  stand  alone,  lie  was  destroyed.  Had  you,  when 
he  spoke,  but  prepared  yourselves  to  act,  flung  out  the  banner 
of  resistance  to  the  winds,  and  bared  the  sword  for  the  last 
noble  struggle,  Hermano  had  not  perished,  nor  were  the  glorious 
work  only  now  to  be  begun.  But  which  of  you,  involved  in  the 
same  peril  with  Hermano,  will  find  the  friend,  in  the  moment  of 
his  need,  to  take  the  first  step  for  his  rescue  ?  Each  of  you,  in 
turn,  having  wealth  to  tempt  the  spoiler,  will  be  sure  to  need 
friendship.  It  seems  you  do  not  look  for  it  am<»M«r  on* 


TIMIDITY    OF    WEALTH.  4o 

another  —  where,  then,   fin   you    propose   to   find    it  ?      "Will    yon 
'•;    for  it   among    tlio   Cartagenians —  among   tin1   otlier  prov 
inces —  to    Bolivar   iritJiouf  ?     Vain    expectation,  if  yon  are  un 
willing  to   peril  anything  for  yourselves   tritJnn  !      In  a  tyranny 
•ind  M  reckless  a<  i->  y..ui>.  yon   must  momentarily 
tremble  !  :Ter  at  the   hands  of  your  despot.     True  man 

hood  rather  prefers  any  peril  which  pnts  an  end  to  this  state  of 
anxiety  and  fear.  Thus  to  tremble  with  apprehension  ever,  is 
ever  to  he  dying.  It  is  a  life  of  death  only  which  ye  live  —  and 
anv  death  or  peril  that  comes  quickly  at  the  summons,  is  to  be 
preferred  before  it.  If,  then,  ve  have  hearts  to  feel,  or  hopes 
to  warm  ye  —  a  pride  to  suffer  consciousness  of  shame,  or  an 
ambition  that  longs  for  better  things  —  affections  for  which  to 
covet  life,  or  the  coinage  with  which  to  assert  and  to  defend 
your  affections  —  ye  can  not,  ye  will  not  hesitate  to  determine, 
with  souls  of  freemen,  upon  what  is  needful  to  he  d«nie.  Ye 
have  hut  one  choice  as  men  ;  and  the  (pie.-ti»n  which  is  left  for 
ye  t<  is  that  which  determines,  not  your  p.  .not 

even  your  lives,  hut  simply  your  rank  and  stature  in  the  world 
of  humanity  and  man." 

The  Liberator  paused,  not  so  much  through  his  own  or  the 
exhaustion  of  the  subject,  as  that  hi:-  hearers  should  in  turn  be 
heard,  lint,  with  this  latter  object,  1  ,;:;<••  uas  profit- 

lr-s.  There  were  tlioe  among  them,  indeed,  who  had  their 
answ  -  ifl  exhortations,  bur  these  were  not  of  a  character  to 

iisc   boldly  f..r  their  patr'n  '  >urage.     Their  profes- 

•  •  ample,  hut  were  confined  to  unmeaning  gen 
eralities.      "Now    is    the    time  --now!"    was    the    response    of 
Bolivar  to  all  that  was  said.      But  they  faltered   and    hung  back 
utterance    of   his  spa-inn.iically-uttered  "  now  !    now1" 
Jl"    Mowed    ttail    tare,    ra-jerly.  \\i\\\    a    hope    that    gradually 
T(i    '  -A  en-   blank    and    inex- 

had    been    meaningless    in- 
Several  of  them  were  of  that   clasp  of  quiet  citi/ens,  unac 
tonied  to  any  enterprises  but  those  of  trade,  who  are  always  slow 
to    peril  we;:l:!i    bv  a    direct    issue  with    their   despotism.      They 
felt    the    truth    of    Bolivar'*-    •fcqtti    :  -       They    knew    that    their 
tr.  azures  were  only  so  many  baits  and  lures  to  the  cupidity  and 
exactions  of  the  royal  emissaries,  but.  they  still  relied  on  their 


46  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

habitual  caution  and  docility  to  keep  terms  with  the  tyranny  at 
which  they  yet  trembled.  AYhen,  in  the  warmth  of  his  enthu 
siasm,  Bolivar  depicted  the  bloody  struggles  which  must  precede 
their  deliverance,  they  began,  indeed,  to  wonder  among  them 
selves  how  they  ever  came  to  fall  into  that  mischievous  philos 
ophy  of  patriotism  which  had  involved  them  with  such  a  restless 
rebel  as  Bolivar!  Others  of  the  company  were  ancient  hidal 
gos,  who  had  been  men  of  spirit  in  their  day,  but  who  had  sur 
vived  the  season  of  enterprise,  which  is  that  period  only  when 
the  heart  swells  and  overflows  with  full  tides  of  warm  and 
impetuous  blood. 

"Your  error,"  said  he,  in  a  whisper  to  Senor  Don.  Joachim 
de  Zalabariata,  "  was  in  not  bringing  young  men  into  your 
counsel-." 

"  We  si i all  have  them  hereafter,"  was  the  reply,  also  in  a 
whi>per. 

••  \YY  ^hall  see,"  muttered  the  Liberator,  who  continued, 
though  MI  silence,  to  scan  the  assembly  with  inquisitive  eyes,  and 
an  excitement  of  soul,  which  increased  duly  with  his  efforts  to 
subdue  it.  He  had  found  some  allies  in  the  circle  —  some  few 
generous  spirits,  who,  responding  to  his  desires,  were  anxious  to 
be  up  and  doing.  But  it  was  only  too  apparent  that  the  main 
body  of  the  company  had  been  rather  disquieted  than  warmed. 
In  this  condition  of  hopeless  and  speechless  indecision,  the  emo 
tions  of  the  Liberator  became  scarcely  controllable.  His  wholo 
frame  trembled  with  the  anxiety  and  indignation  of  his  spirit 
He  paced  the  room  hurriedly,  passing  from  group  to  group, 
appealing  to  individuals  now,  where  hitherto  he  had  spoken  col 
lectively,  and  suggesting  detailed  arguments  in  behalf  of  hopes 
and  objects,  which  it  does  not  need  that  we  should  incorporate 
with  our  narrative.  But  when  he  found  how  feeble  was  the 
influence  which  he  exercised,  and  how  cold  was  the  echo  to  his 
appeal,  he  became  impatient,  and  no  longer  strove  to  modify  tho 
expression  of  that  scorn  and  indignation  which  he  had  for  some 
time  felt.  The  explosion  followed  in  no  measured  language. 

"Men  of  Bogota,  you  are  not  worthy  to  be  free.  Your  chains 
are  merited.  You  deserve  your  insecurities,  and  may  embrace, 
even  as  ye  please,  the  fates  which  lie  before  you.  Acquiesce 
in  the  tyranny  which  ofibnds  DO  kingrr,  but  be  Kim*  Ujut  ntqui- 


INIHti.NATIi'N 


Till.    IMI'UoVVI-  \TIMCK.  47 


escence  never    yet    has   disarm*'.  1  the  despot  when  his  rapacity 
needs  a  victim.    Ymir  live.-  and  ,  <  —  which  ye  dare  not 

peril  in   :  •  of  freedom  —  lie  equally  at  his  mercy.     He 

will  not  pause,  as  you  do,  to  use  them  at  his  pleasure.     To  save 
them  from  him  there  is  but  one  way  —  to  employ  them  against 
him.      There  is  no  security  against  power  but  in  power;   and  to 
check  the  insolence  of  foreign  strength  you  must  oppose  to  it 
Own.     This  ye  have  not  soul  to  do,  and  I  leave  you  to  the 
:iv  you  have  chosen.     This  day,  this  night,  it  was  yours  to 
resolve.      I  have  perilled   all  to  move  you  to  the  proper  resolu 
tion.     You  have  denied  me,  and  I  leave  you.    To-morrow  —  un- 
indeed  1  am   betrayed  to-night"  —  looking  with   a  sarcastic 
smile  around  him  as  he  spoke  —  "I  shall  unfurl  the  banner  of 
the  republic  even  within  your  own  province,  in  behalf  of  Bogota. 
and  leek,  '-ven   against  your  own  desires,  to  bestow  upon  you 
th'.M-  ble^ings  of  liberty  which  ye  have  not  the  soul  to  conquer 
for  yourselves." 

CHAPTER    II. 

II  AUi'i.v  had  these  words  been  spoken,  when  the  guitar  again 
sounded  from  witl.in.  Every  ear  wa-  instantly  hushed  as  the 
strain  ascended  —  a  strain,  m«»re  ambitious  than  the  preceding, 
of  melancholy  and  indignant  apostrophe.  The  improvvisatrice 
\\.-i-  no  longer  able  to  control  the  j.a—  i.mate  inspiration  which 
from  the  Mem  eloquence  "f  tll«'  Liberator.  She 
caught  from  him  the  burning  sentiment  of  scorn  which  it  was  no 
longer  his  policy  to  repress,  and  gave  it  additional  effect  in  the 
polished  sarcasm  of  her  song.  Our  translation  will  poorly  suf 
fice  to  convey  a  proper  notion  of  the  strain. 

fhen  be  it  »o,  tf  •ervili-R  yo  will  l.«>, 

Whrn  manhood's  »oul  had  broken  every  chain, 
Twere  •CHIT**  a  Mo».<iiip  now  to  make  yo  I 
For  8'ioh  condition  tutored  long  in  vain  ; 
may  we  werji  th««  tintum-i  ni'our  land, 
Though  woman'*  ti-ui-  wt-n-  iif\»T  known  to  take 
One  link  away  from  that  opprcnivi-  band 
-uul  t-nough  to  bi 

Oh!  there  wore  ht-aitt  of  might  in  other  dnyv 

Brave  chieft,  who«e  memory  »till  i»  dear  to  fam«  ; 

Alat  foivour*  !—  the  gallant  deed*  we  praiM 
But  «>*vw  mor^  deeply  n«i  mir  chrek» 


48  SOUTHWARD    H"  ! 

A*  In »m  the  midnight  gloom  the  weary  eyr, 

With  sen>e  that  ran  not  the  bright  dawn  forget, 

Looks  ^ndly  hopeless,  from  the  vacant  sky, 
To  that  where  late,  the  glorious  day-star  set! 

Y'-t  all's  not  midnight  dark  if,  in  your  land, 

Thrre  bo  some  gallant  hearts  to  brave  the  strife; 
One  single  generous  blow  from  Freedom's  hand 

May  speak  again  our  sunniest  hopes  to  life; 
If  but  one  blessed  drop  in  living  veins 

Be  worthy  those  who  teach  us  from  the  dead, 
Vengeance  and  weapons  both  are  in  your  chains, 

Hurled  feiirle«i«iy  upon  your  despot's  head  f 

Y'-t,  if  no  memory  of  the  living  p.i-t 

Can  wake  ye  now  to  brave  the  indignant  strife, 
"IV ere  nothing  wise,  at  least,  that  we  should  last 

When  death  itself  might  wear  a  look  of  life  ! 
Ay,  when  the  oppressive  arm  is  lifted  high, 

And  scourge  und  torture  still  conduct  to  graves, 
To  strike,  though  hopeless  still  —  to  strike  and  die! 

They  live  not,  worthy  freedom,  who  are  slaves! 

As  the  song  proceeded,  Bolivar  stood  forward  as  one  rapt  in 
ecstacy.  The  exultation  brightened  in  his  eye,  and  his  manner 
was  that  of  a  soul  in  the  realization  of  its  highest  triumph.  Not 
BO  the  Bogotans  by  whom  lie  was  surrounded.  They  felt  the 
terrible  sarcasm  which  the  damsel's  song  conveyed  —  a  sarcasm 
immortalized  to  all  the  future,  in  the  undying  depths  of  a  song 
to  he  remembered.  They  felt  the  humiliation  of  such  a  record, 
and  bung  their  heads  in  shame.  At  the  close  of  the  ballad, 
Bolivar  exclaimed  to  Joachim  de  Zalabarietta,  the  father:  — 

"  Bring  the  child  before  us.  She  is  worthy  to  be  a  prime  inin- 
Lsier.  A  prime  minister  ?  No!  the  hero  of  the  forlorn  hope  !  a 
spirit  to  raise  a  fallen  .standard  from  the  dust,  and  to  tear  down 
an.l  trample  that  of  the  enemy.  Bring  her  forth,  Joachim.  Had 
your  men  of  Bogota  but  a  tithe  of  a  heart  so  precious!  Nay, 
could  her  heart  be  divided  among  them  —  it  might  serve  a  thou 
sand  --then-,  were  no  viceroy  of  Spain  within  your  city  now  !" 

And  when  the  father  brought  her  forth  from  the  little  cabinet, 
that  girl,  flashing  with  inspiration  —  pale  and  red  by  turns  — 
slightly  made,  but  graceful  —  very  lovely  to  look  upon  — 
wrapped  in  loose  white  garments,,  with  her  long  hair,  dark  and 
flowing  uncoiifiued,  and  so  long  that  it  was  easy  for  her  to 


THK    PROMISK.  49 

\\alk  upon  it*  —  the  admiration  of  the  Liberator  was  insuppres- 
sible. 

"  Bless  you  for  ever,"  he  cried,  "  my  fair  Princes';  of  Free 
dom  !  You,  at  least,  have  a  free  soul,  and  one  that  is  certainly 
inspired  by  tlie  threat  divinity  of  earth.  Von  shall  he  mine  ally, 
Miough  I  find  none  ^ther  in  all  Bogota  Miflkvently  courageous. 
In  you,  my  child,  i«i  yon  and  yours,  there  is  still  a  redeeming 
spirit  which  shall  save  your  city  utterly  from  shame  !" 

While  he  spoke,  the  emotions  of  the  maiden  were  of  a  sort 
readily  to  show  how  easily  she  should  be  quickened  with  the 
inspiration  of  lyiic  song.  The  color  came  and  went  upon  her 
white  cheeks.  The  tears  rom>,  iii^r  and  bright,  upon  her 
f.yda-lio  —  heavy  drops,  incapable  of  suppression,  that  .swelled 
one  after  the  other,  trembled  and  fell,  while  the  light  blazed, 
even  more  brightly  from  the  showers  in  the  dark  and  dilating 
orbs  which  harbored  such  capacious  fountains.  She  had  no 
words  at  first,  hut,  trembling  like,  a  leaf,  sink  upon  a  cushion  at 
the  feet  of  her  father,  as  Bolivar,  with  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead, 
:s««d  her  f p. ni  hi>  cla>p.  Her  courage  came  back  to  her  a 
moment  after.  She  was  a  thing  of  impulse,  whose  moven 
w.-re  as  prompt  and  unex pected  as  the  inspiration  by  which  she 
sung.  Bolivar  had  scarcrly  turned  from  her,  as  if  to  relieve  her 
tremor,  when  she  recovered  all  her  strength  and  cou.'ago.  Sud 
denly  rising  from  the  cushion,  she  seized  the  hand  of  her  father, 
and  with  an  action  equally  passionate  and  dignified,  she  led  him 
to  the  hibi-rator,  to  whom,  speaking  for  the  first  time  in  that 
presence,  she  thus  addressed  herself:  — 

"  He  is  yours — he  has  always  been  ready  with  his  life  and 
money.  Believe  me,  for  I  know  it.  Nay  more  !  doubt  not  that 
there  are  hundreds  in  Bogota  —  though  they  be  not  here  —  who, 
like  him,  will  be  ready  whenever  they  hear  the  summons  of 
your  trumpet.  X»r  will  the  women  of  Bogota  be  wanting. 
There  will  l.e  many  of  them  who  will  tak-  pons  of  : 

who  use  thrm  not.  and  do  as  brave  deeds  for  iheir  country  as 
•  lid  the  dames  of  Magdalena  when  they  slew  four  hundred 
Sj  'aniards."t 

A  :'i.  (('.mi  cux-  iimoug  ih«  maidi  ot"  South  America. 

'  Ti.i*  fmble  »lau{l»ter  took  place  on  the  night  of  the  ICth  ut'J -..»<•,  1816, 
:ho  a«l\ice  and  with  tin.-  particSpnrwn  of  the  'Vomcn  of  MoinjH'X,  •»  t-^a  \ 

3 


50  ,n \VARD    HO! 

"All!  I  remember!  A  most  glorious  achievement,  and  woi- 
tliy  to  be  written-in  letters  of  gold.  It  was  at  Mompox,  where 
they  rose  upon  the  garrison  of  M«>rill«>.  Girl,  you  are  worthy  to 
have  l>een  the  chief  of  those  women  of  Magdalena.  You  will 
Le  chief  yet  of  the  women  of  Bogota.  I  take  your  assurance 
with  regard  to  them  ;  but,  for  the  men,  it  were  better  that  thou 
peril  nothing  even  in  thy  speech." 

The  last  sarcasm  of  the  Liberator  might  have  been  spared 
That  which  his  eloquence  had  failed  to  effect  was  suddenly  ac- 
ounplibhed  by  this  child  of  beauty.  Her  inspiration  and  presence 
were  electrical.  The  old  forgot  their  caution  and  their  years 
The  young,  who  needed  but  a  leader,  had  suddenly  found  a 
genius.  There  was  now  no  lack  of  the  necessary  enthusiasm. 
There  were  no  more  scruples.  Hesitation  yielded  to  resolve. 
The  required  pledges  were  given  —  given  more  abundantly  than 
required ;  and,  raising  the  slight  form  of  the  damsel  to  his  own 
height,  Bolivar  again  pressed  his  lips  upon  her  forehead,  gazing 
at  her  with  a  respectful  delight,  while  he  bestowed  upon  her  the 
name  of  the  Guardian  Angel  of  Bogota.  With  a  heart  bound 
ing  and  beating  with  the  most  enthusiastic  emotions  —  too  full 
lor  further  utterance  —  La  Pola  disappeared  from  that  imposing 
presence  which  her  coming  had  filled  with  a  new  life  and 
impulse, 

CHAPTER    III. 

IT  was  nearly  dawn  when  the  Liberator  left  the  city.  That 
night  the  bleaching  skeleton  of  the  venerable  patriot  Heiinano 
was  taken  down  from  the  gibbet  where  it  had  hung  so  long,  l<y 
hands  that  left  the  revolutionary  banner  waving  proudly  in  its 
place.  This  was  an  event  to  startle  the  viceroy.  It  was  fol 
lowed  by  other  events.  In  a  few  days  more,  and  the  sounds  of 

lifui  city  on   au   iil.itul   it   the  rivrr   M;i-,l,ii.-ii;i.      Tin-   event    has   enlisted    tl-»' 

niuflu  o!  muny  u  i  !  and  |>ui-t,  who  giv\v  wild  \vhi-n  tln-y 

.:..iu;ige  of 

•'  Tho»e  Homo*  of  Magdalenn. 
Who,  in  one  fearful  night, 
Slew  full  four  hundn-d  tyrant*, 

Nor  fhrunk  from  blood  in  fright.'' 

Such  women  de**rve  the  apostrophe  of  Macbeth  to  hi*  wif« :  — 
'  Siir.j  f«:to  nicTi  children  oaiv." 


PROGRESS  OF  THE  WAR.  51 

Insurrection  were  heard  throughout  the  province  —  *'iO  city  still 
moving  secretly — sending  forth   supplies  and   intelligence   by 

th.  but  unable  to  raise  the  standard  of  rebellion,  while  Za- 
man<»,  the  rifitroy,  doubtful  of  its  loyalty,  remained  in  posses- 
HOU  <>f  it.-.  >trong  places  with  an  overawing  force.  Bolivar  him 
self,  under  these  circumstances,  was  unwilling  that  tin1,  patriots 
should  throw  a>ide.  the  mask.  Throughout  the  province,  how 
ever,  the  rising  was  general.  They  responded  eagerly  to  the 
call  of  the  Liberator,  and  it  was  easy  to  foresee,  that  their  cause 
ultimately  prevail.  The  people  in  conflict  proved  them 
selves  equal  to  their  rulers.  Th*>  Spaniards  had  been  neither 
moderate  when  strong,  nor  were  they  prudent  now  when  the 
conflict  found  them  weak.  Still,  the  successes  were  various. 
The  Spaniards  had  a  foothold  from  which  it  was  not  easy  to  ex- 
pel  them,  and  were  in  possession  of  resources,  in  arms  and  mate 
rial,  derived  from  the  mother-country,  with  which  the  republi 
cans  found  it  i.D  easy  matter  to  contend.  Hut  they  did  contend, 
and  this,  with  the  right  upon  their  side,  was  the  great  guarantee 
for  success.  What  the  Colombians  wanted  in  the  materials  of 
MOM  than  supplied  by  their  enr>-gy  and  patriotism; 
and,  however  slow  in  attaining  their  desired  object,  it  was  yet 
evident  to  all.  except  their  enemies,  that  the  issue  Vmly 

in  their  own  hands. 

•wo  years   that   the  war  had  been  carried  or,  the  I 
observer  could,  perhaps  ^ee   l«ut   little   change  in  the  respective 
relations  of  the  combatants.     The  Spaniards  still  continued  to 
maintain  their  foothold  wherever   the    risings  of  the  patriots  had 
lieen    premature  or   partial.      Hut   the   iv  -f  the    f c  : 

hourly  undergoing  diminution,  and   the,   grraf    l>'^enii"_r  of 
the    productions   of   the    country,  incident   to   its   insurrectionary 

I'.tinn,  had  Mil  •traded  largely  from  the  temptations  to  the 
further  prosecution  of  the  war.  The  hopes  of  the  patriots  natu 
rally  rose  with  the  depression  of  their  enemies,  and  their  in 
creasing  numbers,  and  improving  skill  in  the  use  of  their  weap 
ons,  not  a  little  contributed  to  their  endurance  and  activity.  But 
for  this  history  we  must  look  to  other  volumes.  The  question 
for  us  is  confined  to  an  individual.  How,  in  all  this  time,  had 
La  Pola  redeemed  her  pledge  to  the  Libernr  .  ihi 

whom  he  hud  described  an  the  '•  gunnlLan  genius  of  Bogoln.*' 


52  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

adhered   to    the/    enthusiastic  faith  which    she   had  voluntarily 
pledged  to  him  in  behalf  of  herself  and  people  ? 

Now,  it  may  be  supposed  that  a  woman's  promise,  to  partici 
pate  in  the  business  of  an  insurrection,  is  not  the  thing  upon 
which  much  stress  is  to  be  laid.  We  are  apt  to  assume  for  the 
so.x  a  too  humble  capacity  for  high  performances,  and  a  too 
small  sympathy  with  the  Interests  and  affairs  of  public  life.  In 
both  respects  we  are  mistaken.  A  proper  education  for  the  sex 
would  result  in  showing  their  ability  to  share  with  man  in  all 
his  toils,  and  to  sympathize  vith  him  in  all  the  legitimate  con 
cerns  of  manhood.  But  what,  demands  the  caviller,  can  be  ex 
pected  of  a  child  of  fifteen  I  and  should  her  promises  be  heH 
against  her  for  rigid  fulfilment  and  performai.ee '?  It  might  be 
enough  to  answer  that  we  are  writing  a  sober  history.  There  is 
the  record.  The  fact  is  AS  we  give  it.  But  a  girl  of  fifteen,  in 
the  warm  latitude  of  South  America,  is  quite  ;;.*  ir.:iture  as  the 
northern  maiden  of  twenty-five  ;  with  an  ardor  in  her  nature 
that  seems  to  wing  the  operations  of  the.  mind,  making  that  intu 
itive  with  her,  whi.'h,  in  the  person  of  a  colder  climate,  is  the 
result  only  of  long  calculation  and  deliberate  thought.  She  is 
sometimes  a  mother  at  twelve,  and,  as  in  the  case  of  La  Pola,  a 
heroine  at  fifteen.  We  freely  admit  that  Bolivar,  th^i:vli  greatly 
interested  in  the  improvvisatrice,  was  chiefly  grateful  to  her  for 
the  timely  rebuke  which' she  administered,  through  her  peculiar 
faculty  of  lyric  song,  to  the  unpatriotic  inactivity  of  her  country 
men.  As  a  matter  of  course,  he  might  still  expect  that  the 
same  muse  would  take  fire  under  similar  provocation  hereafter. 
But  he  certainly  never  calculated  on  other  and  more  decided 
services  at  her  hands.  He  misunderstood  the  being  whom  he 
had  somewhat  contributed  to  inspire.  lie  did  not  appreciate 
her  ambition,  or  comprehend  her  resources.  From  the  moment 
of  his  meeiinu  with  her  she  became  a  woman.  She  was  already 
a  politician  as  she  was  a  poet.  Intrigue  is  natural  to  the  genius 
of  the  sex.  and  the  faculty  is  enlivened  by  the  possession  of  a 
warm  imagination.  La  Pola  put  all  her  faculties  in  requisition. 
Her  soul  was  now  addressed  to  the  achievement  of  some  plan  of 
co-operation  with  the  republican  chief,  and  she  succeeded,  where 
wiser  persons  must  have  failed,  in  compassing  the  desirable 
fr.cilities. 


POLITIC?    OF   THE    IMPROVVISATRICE.  58 

Living  in  Bogota  —  the  stronghold  of  flic  enemy — she  exer- 
,  a  policy  and  address  which  disamied  BHBfHCton.     Her  father 
and  his  family  were  to   be  paved   and   shielded,  while   they  re 
mained  under  the  power  of  the  viceroy,  Zamano —  a  military  des 
pot  who  had  already  acquired  a  reputation  for  cruelty  scarcely 
inferior  to  that  of  the  worst  of  the  Roman  emperors  in  the  latter 
days  of  the  empire.     The  wealth  of  her  father,  partly  known, 
made  him  a  desirahle  victim.     Her  beauty,  her  spirit,  the  charm 
of  her  song  and  conversatior.  v/ere  exercised,  as  well  to  secure 
favor  for  him,  as  to  prorurr   the  needed  intelligence  and  assis- 
f>r  the  Liberator.      She   managed  the  twofold  object  with 
admirable  success  —  disarming  suspicion,  and,  under  cover  of  the 
confiiiei.i-e  which   she   inspired,  succeeding  in  ejecting   constant 
UuicAtk>D    with   the  patriots,  by  which   she   put   into   their 
,  all  the  plans  of  the  Spaniards.     Her  rare  talents  and 
•.v  urn-  the  chief -ourco  of  her  RfeeetB.      She  subdued  her 
;    int-MiM-    nature  —  her    wild    impul-e    and    eager 
In-art — employing  them  r.uly  to  impart  to  her  fancy  a  move  im- 
pre.-siv.-  and  spiritual  existence.     She  clothed  her  genius  in  the 
brighter  and  [  lors.  fpoitini:  above  the  precipice  of  1< •«•!- 

innr.  and  making  of  it  a  background  and  u  relief  to  heighten  the 
of  her   srcminglv  wilful    fancv.      Song  came  at    hrr   sum- 
.  and  disarmed   thr  MT'IOU-  cjuestioner.      In  tl.  t   her 

I  enemies  she  was  only  the  impr<>\  vk-itrice —  a  rarely 
gifted  creature,  living  in  the  clouds,  and  totally  regardless  of  the 
thii'.L  <  mild  thus  beguile  from  the  younir  oHicers 

of  the  Spanish  army,  without  provoking  the  slightest  apprehen- 
of  any  sinister   object,  the    secret    plan    and    purpose  —  the 
new  supply  —  the  contemjtlatrd  enterprise  —  in  short,  a  thousand 
tilings  wii;,  b.  a^  an  inspired   idiot,  might    be  yiel-led    to  hrr  with 
inditYen  me,  which,  in  the  easy  of  one  solsoitou-    to  know,  would 
narded  with  the  n,  She  was   the  j.rin- 

cess  of  the  tertulia  —  that  mode  of  evening  entertainment  so  com 
mon,  yet  sr»   precious,  among   the   Spaniards.     At   these  pa;- 
she  ministered  with  a  grace  and  influence  which  made  the  1 
!»f  her  father  a  place  of  general   resort.     The   Spanish   gallants 
thronged  about   her    person,  watchful   of  her   -  .  and 

yielding  alu.  coin  pass,  and  delightful  spiritn- 

nlity  of  her  vou^.     .V  her  <»f  iv> 


M  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

offence  than  of  being  totally  heartless,  with  all  her  charms,  and 
of  aiming-  at  no  treachery  more  dangerous  than  that  of  making 
conquests,  simply  to  deride  them.  It  was  the  popular  qualifica 
tion  of  all  her  beauties  and  accomplishments  that  she  was  a  co 
quette,  at  once  so  cold,  and  so  insatiate.  Perhaps,  the  woman 
politician  never  so  thoroughly  conceals  her  game  as  when  she 
masks  it  with  the  art  which  men  are  most  apt  to  describe  as  the 
prevailing  passion  of  the  sex. 

By  these  arts,  La  Pola  fulfilled  most  amply  her  pledges  to 
the  liberator.  She  was,  indeed,  his  most  admirable  ally  in 
Bogota.  She  soon  became  thoroughly  conversant  with  all  the 
facts  in  the  condition,  of  the  Spanish  army  —  the  strength  of  the 
several  armaments,  their  disposition  and  destination  —  the  oper 
ations  in  prospect,  and  the  opinions  and  merits  of  the  officers  — 
all  of  whom  she  knew,  and  from  v  horn  she  obtained  no  smnll 
knowledge  of  tin-  worth  and  value  of  their  absent  cornr 
These  particulars,  all  regularly  transmitted  to  Bolivar,  v,  «»re 
quite  as  much  the  secret  of  his  success,  as  his  own  genius  and 
the  valor  of  his  troops.  The  constant  disappointment  and  de 
feat  of  the,  royalist  arms,  in  the  operations  which  were  conduct 
ed  in  the.  province,  of  Bogota,  attested  the  closeness  and  correct 
ness  of  her  knowledge,  and  its  vast  importance  to  the  cause  of 
the  patriots. 

(1IAPTKR     IV. 

Unfortunately,  however,  one  of  her  communications  was  in 
tercepted,  and  the  cowardly  bearer,  intimidated  by  the  terrors 
of  impending  death,  was  persuaded  to  betray  his  employer.  He 
revealed  all  that  he  knew  of  her  practices,  and  one  of  his  state 
ments,  namely,  that  she  usually  drew  from  her  shoe  the  paper 
which  she  jra\  (•  him,  served  to  fix  conclusively  upon  her  the 
proofs  of  her  offence.  She  was  arrested  in  the  midst  of  an  ad 
miring  throng,  presiding  with  her  usual  grace  at  the  tertulia,  to 
which  her  wit  and  music  furnished  the  eminent  attractions. 
Forced  to  submit,  her  shoes  were  taken  from  her  feet  in  the 
presence  of  the  crowd,  and  in  one  of  them,  between  the  sole  and 
the  )  :.!n^',  was  a  memorandum  designed  for  Bolivar,  containing 
the  Jotails,  in  anticipation,  of  one  of  the  intended  movements  of 
th?  viceroy.  She  was  not  confounded,  nor  did  she  bink  b«neatli 


DETKCTION    AND    lxx»M.  55 

this  discovery.  Her  soul  M-emed  to  ri-c  rather  into  an  unusual 
M  of  .serenity  ami  strength.  She  encouraged  her  friends 
witli  smiles  and  the  sweetest  seeming  indifference,  though  she 
well  know  that  her  doom  was  certainly  at  hand.  She  had  her 
consolations  even  under  this  conviction.  Her  father  was  in  safety 
in  the  camp  of  Bolivar.  With  her  counsel  and  assistance  ho 
would  save  much  of  his  property  from  the  wreck  of  confiscation. 
The  plot  had  ripened  in  her  hands  almost  to  maturity,  and,  be- 
very  long,  B«-_  t'  would  speak  for  liberty  in  a  formi 
dable  j'l-nmitirnuin'nto.  And  this  was  mostly  her  work!  What 
more  was  done,  by  her  agency  and  influence,  may  be  readily 
conjectured  from  what  lias  been  already  written.  Enough,  that 
she  herself  i'elt  that  in  leaving  life  she  left  it  when  there  was 
little  more  left  for  her  to  do. 

La  Pola  was  hurried  i'mm  the  tertulia  before  a  military  court 
—  martial  law  then  prevailing1  in  the  capital  —  with  a  rapidity 
corresponding  with  the  BtlppOffti  enormity  of  her  offences.  It 
was  her  chief  Jiang  that  she  was  imt  hurried  there  alone.  We 
have  not  hitherto  mentioned  that  she  had  a  lover,  one  Juan  de 
mere,  to  whom  she  was  affianced  —  a  worthy  and  noble 
youth,  who  entertained  for  her  the  most  passionate  attachment 
It  is  a  somewhat  curious  fact  that  she  kept  him  wholly  from 
anv  knowledge  of  her  political  alliances;  and  never  was  man 
more  indignant  than  he  when  she  \vas  arrested,  or  more  con 
founded  when  the  proofs  of  her  guilt  were  drawn  from  her  per- 
Bon.  His  oflence  consisted  in  his  resistance  to  the  authorities 
who  seized  her.  There  was  not  the  slightest  reason  to  suppose 
that  he  knew  or  participated  at  all  in  her  intimacy  with  th< 
triots  and  Bolivar.  He  was  tried  along  with  her.  and  both  con 
demned —  for  at  this  time  condemn  :  trial  were  words 
of  8vn<  n\  •OOI  import — to  be  shot.  A  respite  of  twelve  hours 
from  execution  was  granted  them  for  the  purposes  of  o.nfe^ion. 
Zamano,  the  vici-my.  anxious  for  other  victims,  spared  no  n. 
to  procure  a  full  revelation  of  all  tin  ;  our  heroine.  The 
priest  who  waited  upon  her  was  the  one  who  attended  on  the 
viceroy  himself.  He  held  out  lures  of  pardon  for  both,  here 
and  hereafter,  upon  the  one  condition  only  of  a  full  declaration 
of  her  secret*  and  accomplices.  Well  might  the  leading  people 
wf  Bogota  tremble  all  the  while.  But  «be  wns  firm  in  her  re- 


.")!)  -OtTHWARI)    H(>! 

fusal.  Neither  promises  of  present  mercy,  nor  threats  ol  the 
future,  could  extort  from  her  a  single  fact  in  relation  to  her  pro 
ceedings.  Her  lover,  naturally  desirous  of  life,  particularly  hi 
the  possession  of  so  much  to  make  it  precious,  joined  in  the  en 
treaties  of  the  priest ;  but  she  answered  him  with  a  mournful 
severity  that  smote  him  like  a  sharp  weapon  — 

"  Gomero  !  did  I  love  you  for  this  ?  Beware,  lest  I  hate  you 
ere  I  die  !  Is  life  so  dear  to  you  that  you  would  dishonor  both 
of  us  to  live  ?  Is  there  no  consolation  in  the  thought  that  we 
shall  die  together?" 

"But  we  shall  be  spared — we  shall  be  saved,"  was  the  reply 
of  the  lover. 

"  Believe  it  not — it  is  false  !  Zamano  spares  none.  Our  lives 
are  forfeit,  and  all  that  we  could  say  would  be  unavailing  to 
avert  your  fate  or  mine.  Let  us  not  lessen  the  value  of  this 
>,u  rifice  on  the  altars  of  our  country,  by  any  unworthy  fears. 
If  you  have  ever  loved  me,  be  firm.  I  am  a  woman,  but  I  am 
>tiong.  Be  not  less  ready  for  the  death-shot  than  is  she  whom 
you  have  chosen  for  your  wife." 

Other  arts  were  employed  by  the  despot  for  the  attainment  of 
his  desires.  Some  of  the  native  citizens  of  Bogota,  who  had 
been  content  to  become  the  creatures  of  the  viceroy,  were  em 
ployed  to  work  upon  her  fears  and  affections,  by  alarming  her 
with  regard  to  persons  of  the  city  whom  she  greatly  esteemed 
and  valued,  and  whom  Zamano  suspected.  But  their  endeavors 
were  met  wholly  with  scorn.  When  they  entreated  her,  among 
other  things,  "  to  give  peace  to  her  country,"  the  phrase  seemed 
to  awaken  all  her  indignation. 

"Peace!  peace  to  our  country!"  she  exclaimed.  "What 
peace  !  the  peace  of  death,  and  shame,  and  the  grave,  for  ever  !" 
And  her  soul  again  found  relief  only  in  its  wild  lyrical  overflow. 

What  peace  fur  mir  country,  when  vc'vc  made  her  a  grave, 
A  den  for  the  tyninl,  ;i  ci-ll  for  the  slave; 
A  pestilent  plague-nrnr,  accusing  und  curst, 
A*  vile  in  tin-  vilest,  und  wor»e  than  the  worst  ! 

The  chnin  n-:iy  )•••  hniki-!i,  the  tyninny  oYr, 
But  the  nweet  charms  that  blciicd  her  ye  may  not  restore  ; 
Not  your  blood,  though  poured  forth  from  life's  ruddiest  v  >iu 
Shall  free  her  from  tiirrow,  or  cleans*  her  from  »uin  ' 


VI  Vi:    LA     I'ATKIA.  67 

'Ti*  ih"  gii»'f  'hat  ye  mny  not  rtmove  the  disgrace, 
Tliii'     :  th  the  blackness  of  hell  all  your  race; 

'Ti«  the  nonow  that  nothing  nviy  C  nf  shame, 

That  has  wrought  119  to  madness,  and  tilled  us  with  flame. 

Years  may  p;u-«,  but  the  memory  d<  ej>  in  our  souls, 
Shall  make  tin-  tali-  darker  as  Time  onward  rolls; 
And  the  future  that  trows  fiom  our  ruin  shall  know 
It>  own,  and  its  country's,  Hti.l  liberty's  f«>,-. 

And  still,  in  the  |>I:IY«T  at  it-*  altars  shall  rise, 
Appeal  for  the  \  t   e  irth  ;md  of  skies; 

Me;i  shall  pny  that  the  curse  of  all  time  may  pursue 
And  plead  for  the  curse  of  eternity  too! 

M  mfo.'ily  vengeful  in  spirit  their  prayer, 
Since  the  weal  of  the  whole  world  fit-bids  them  to  spate 
What  hope  would  there  he  for  mankind  if  our  race, 
Through  the  rule  of  the  brutal,  is  robbed  by  tue  bn»r  ? 

What  hop.-  for  the  future,  \vhaf  hope  for  th^  fre»  , 

And  where  would  the  promise  of  liiu  r 

If  Time  had  no  tenor,  no  doom  for  the  slave, 

\Yho  would  stub  his  own  mother,  and  shout  o'er  her  grave  ! 

Such  a  response  as  this  effectually  silenced  all  those  cunning 

agents  of  the  virrnty  wh«»  urged  their  arguments  in  In-half  of 
their  country.  Nothing,  it  was  srm.  nuihl  l»e  dune  with  a  spirit 
s"  intlexihle  :  and  in  liis  1'ury  Zaniano  <>rdiired  the  coujile  f'.rth 
to  ins-ant  f\.-cuti«»u.  Bogota  was  in  mourning.  Its  peoj.h-  09T- 
cri-il  their  lieads.  a  few  only  exerjited,  and  refused  to  he  -«•«•!! 
Or  comforted.  The  priests  wh"  attended  the  victims  received 
i  as  f>m-erned  the  secrets  of  the  patriots;  and  they 
retired  in  chagrin,  and  without  granting  ahsolntion  to  either  vic 
tim.  The  firing  party  made  ready.  Then  it  was.  t'-r  the  fir>t 
time,  that  the  spirit  of  this  nohle  maiden  seemed  to  shrink  from 
the  approach  of  death. 

"  Butclic!  •  xclaimed    to   tin-   vict-roy,  who  stood   in  his 

balcony,  overlooking  the  seen.-   of  exerution.      "  Butidier  !     \  "U 
•i;en  the  heart  t«»  kill  a  woman!" 

These  were  the  only  words  of  weakness.  She  recovered  her 
self  instantly,  nnd,  preparing  for  her  fate,  without  looking  for 
any  effect  from  her  words,  she  proceeded  to  cover  her  face  with 
the  .\uya,  or  veil,  which  she  wore.  Drawing  it  aside  for  the  pnr- 
.  the  words  "  I'n-t-  l,i  Pn>r»i  .'"  embroidered  in  letters  ot 


58 

gold,  were  discovered  on  the  basqvina.  As  the  signal  for  exe 
cution  was  given,  a  distant  hum,  as  of  the  clamors  of  an  ap 
proaching  army,  was  heard  fitfully  to  rise;  upon  the  air. 

"  It  is  he  !  He  comes  !  It  is  Bolivar  !  It  is  the  Liherator  !" 
was  her  cry,  in  a  tone  of  hope  and  triumph,  which  found  its  echo 
in  the  bosom  of  hundreds  who  dared  not  give  their  hearts  a  voice. 
It  was,  indeed,  the  Liberator.  Bolivar  was  at  hand,  pressing 
onward  with  all  speed  to  the  work  of  deliverance ;  but  he  came 
too  late  for  the  rescue  of  the  beautiful  and  gifted  damsel  to  whom 
lie  owed  so  much.  The  fatal  Imllets  of  the  executioners  pene 
trated  her  heart  ere  the  cry  of  her  exultation  had  subsided  from 
the  ear.  Thus  perished  a  woman  worthy  to  be  remembered 
with  the  purest  and  proudest  who  have  done  honor  to  nature 
and  the  sex ;  one  who,  with  all  the  feelings  and  sensibilities  of 
the  woman,  possessed  all  the  pride  and  patriotism,  the  courage, 
the  sagacity  and  the  daring  of  the  man. 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  \Vo  ilitl  keep  timf,  sir,  in  our  catches.'1 

[  Twelfth  NigKt. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  the  contribution  of  our  fair  companion 
was  received  with  warmest  thanks  and  congratulations.  She 
had  delivered  herself  of  the  pleasant  laboi,  as  if  there  had  been 
a  pleasure  in  the  service  —  unaffectedly,  with  equal  ease,  modes 
ty  and  spirit.  Her  narrative  was  grr.ceful,  while  her  lyrical 
efforts  were  mark-ed  by  an  enthusiasm  which  was  regelated,  in 
turn,  by  the  nicest  delicacy  and  good  taste.  My  Gothamite 
friend  was  all  in  raptures,  and  I  fancied  th:t  his  praises  were 
by  in i  menus  of  ungracious  sound  in  the  ears  of  Miss  Burroughs. 
Selina,  by  the  way  -  -  !'..•  name  which  my  long  intimacy  with  her 
permitted  me  to  use  familiarly  —  was  youni:  enough  for  senti- 
iiH-ut  —  was,  a>  1  believed,  quite  fre^'  of  any  attachments; 
though  too  quiet  to  figure  conspicuously  in  a  fashionable  jam. 
just  in  the  situation  which  could  most  effectually  ex 
hibit  her  more  charming  qualities  Mv  friend  Duyckman 

ntly  touched.  There  was  a  probability,  indeed  —  so  I 
fancied  —that  each  of  them,  before  long,  would  be  inclined  to 
say,  in  the  language  of  Nicholas  Bottom,  "  I  shall  desire  you  .if 
more  acquaintance,  pood  master  Pease  Blossom."  I  could  look 
on  Mich  a  ir:-o\vth  of  liking  between  the  parties  with  great  coui- 
plai-am-y.  To  one  who  is  no  hm^er  in  the  Held,  the  swi-- 
picture  in  the  world  is  in  the  gradual  approach  of  two  young 
fond  hearts  to  one  another  —  they  themselves,  perhaps,  quite 
unconscious  uf  the  tendency,  yet  as  docile  as  the  ductile  needle 
to  the  directing  tinker  of  the  pule. 

For  awhile  the  conversation  became  general  among  the 
group.  The  night  was  passing  inseiibibly.  It  was  so  calm, 
soft,  seductive,  that  sleep  was  forgotten.  The  care^  of  trade, 
the  tasks  of  toil,  the  intensity  of  study,  affected  mme  of  ua. 


60  SOUTHWARD  Ha! 

Each,  with  a  fresh  sense  of  freedom,  was  free  also  from  all 
of  physical  exhaustion.  Why  sleep  ?  There  were  lister.t-rs, 
and  each  unlocked  his  stores.  The  oyster  war  was  re-called, 
and  other  anecdotes  given.  As  we  swept  along  by  the  shores 
«>f  New  Jersey,  which  we  could  no  longer  see,  her  people,  char 
acter,  and  histoiy,  furnished  our  topics.  It  was  admitted  that 
the  Jerseyans  were  a  sterling  sort  of  people.  They  had 
shown  good  pluck  in  the  Revolution,  and  their  country  had 
furnished  the  battle-fields  of  some  of  onr  most  glorious  actions 
—  Monmouth,  Princeton,  Trenton.  These  recalled  Washington, 
and  Lee,  and  Lafayette,  and  many  others.  It  was  admitted  that — 

"  The  Jerseyan,  when  a  gentleman,  was  of  the  best  models; 
and  even  when  not  exactly  a  gentleman,  was  still  to  be  recog 
nised  as  a  good  fellow.  Without  being  the  swashing,  conceited 
Gothamite,  he  was  yet  very  far  from  resembling  the  prim, 
demure  broad-brims  of  the  Quaker  city.  In  other  words,  he 
was  gay  and  gallant,  without  rudeness  or  foppery  ;  and  firm  and 
thoughtful,  without  beiu^  strait-laced  and  puritanical.  In  brief, 
he  had  a  character  of  his  own,  and  was  not  made  up  of  the  odds 
and  ends  of  all  sorts  of  people." 

Our  son  of  Gotham  did  not  exactly  relish  the  comparison 
thus  made  by  one  of  the  group,  and  replied  in  a  rather  stale 
sarcasm  : — 

"  The  less  said  by  way  of  comparison  between  Jersey,  as 
between  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  the  better.  As  old 
Franklin  phrased  it  —  she  is  the  barrel  on  tap  at  both  ends." 

The  retort  followed  from  the  former  speaker. 

"  These  two  cities  are  the  sewers  of  Jersey.  She  uses  them 
for  common  purposes — employing  them  where  needful  for  her 
common  uses,  without  being  responsible  for  their  morals,  or 
troubled  with  their  nuisances.  She  is  fortunate  in  escaping  the 
evils  of  great  cities,  which  she  can  nevertheless  use  at  pleasure." 

This  was  a  new  view  of  the  case  which  luid  never  occurred 
to  our  Gothamite,  and  required  reflection.  He  had.  DO  imme 
diate  answer.  The  other  speaker  continued,  and  made  his 
contributions  to  our  entertainment  by  a  statement  of  certain 
facts  wliich  might  be  wrought  into  story. 

"  Jersey,"  he  said,  "  even  along  the  shores,  and,  in  recent 
periods,  is  not  without  its  picturesque  and  romantic.  It  is  not 


DALTOX   THE   STRANGER.  61 

long,  since  that  tin"  coast  which  we  arc  passing  was  distinguished 
infamously  by  a  class  of  cruel  outlaws,  who  wore  not  the  less 
murderous  because  they  pcrfonne.il  their  crimes  under  the  cover 
of  night  and  tempest.  Here,  in  situations  favorable  to  their 
.-.cc'irse  i  trade,  dwelt  a  race  of  land  pirate.-,  such  as  roved  the 
wastes  of  the  Mississippi  —  Mich  as  not  many  years  ago  occu 
pied  the  Keys  of  Florida  —  *'K'h  as  still  mislead  and  prey  upon 
the  innocent  and  unsuspecting,  on  the  dreary  land  routes  to 
•rnia.  These  were  wreckers,  who  lived  upon 
waifs  cast  up  by  the  sea,  and  who  hung1  out  false  lights,  when 
the  nights  were  dark  and  .stormy.  t<>  beguile  the  unwary  and 
exhausted  mariner.  Everybody  is  aware  of  the  sort  of  life 
which  they  pursued,  fur  many  years,  durinir  a  period  still  fresh 
within  the  memories  of  men  ;  though  no  one  can  conjecture  the 
extent  to  which  they  carried  their  nefarious  traffic.  I  heard  a 
story,  not  long  ago,  told  by  a  sea-captain  along  this  route,  which 
he  assured  me  he  had  from  the  very  best  authority.'' 

We  were  all  agog  to  hear,  and  our  Jerseyan  thus  proceeded  : — 
"  It  appears  that  some  twenty  years  ago  there  suddenly  ap 
peared  a  stranger  in  the  countrv  along  shore  —  in  a  lonely  and 
sequestered  .sp.it ---of  whom  nobody  knew  anything.  Briefly, 
no  one  was  particularly  curious  to  inquire.  He  was  moody, 
reserved,  somewhat  sullen,  and  a  person  whose  aspect  g 
warning  of  irritable  passions,  while  his  physique  was  one  of 
great  muscular  activity  and  power.  He  described  himself  as 
an  Englishman,  and  went  by  the  name  of  Dalton.  As  far  as 
the  people  could  gather  from  himself  and  others,  lie  was  under 
stood  to  have  been  a  sailor,  and  a  deserter  from  the  royal  navy 
This  was,  to  a  small  degree,  a  s«»ur«-f  of  sympathy  for  him  — 
particularly  an  he  had  hern  cruelly  treated  in  the  service. 
Some  accounts  spoke  of  him  as  one  who.  in  Midden  frav,  had 
used  a  marlin-spike  with  a  little  too  heavy  a  hand  up«-n  an  : 
lent  and  brutal  lieutenant.  In  leaving  the  servic.-.  r.  in 

Oft,  and  at  short  notice,  he  yet  took  up  another  trade  which 
still  kept  him  in  daily  commerce  with  the  ocean.  The  sight  of 
this  field  was,  perhaps,  more  natural  to  his  eyes-  than  any 
He  made  his  way  along  shore  to  a  portion  of  the  coast  where 
the  restraints  of  society  and  law  were  fewest.  Here  he  natu 
rally  became  a  wrecker,  and  gathered  his  spoils  along  the  sea 


(5'2  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

side,  after  a  fashion  but  too  common  with  his  neighbors.  Every 
storm  brought  him  tribute,  and  his  accumulations  began  to  be 
considerable.  Wrecks  increased  fearfully  after  his  appearance 
in  the.  neighborhood  ;  and,  for  the  goods  thus  brought  to  these 
wild  outlaws,  by  a  wretched  fortune,  they  had  but  one  duty  to 
perform  —  to  bury  out  of  sight  the.  human  sufferers  who  were 
quite  as  frequently  the  victims  of  their  cruel  snares  as  of  the 
treacherous  shores  and  tempests. 

"  Dalton  prospered  in  the  horrid  trade;  and  the  rude  cabin  in 
which  he  dwelt  alone,  and  which  was  visited  but  rarely,  began  to 
improve  in  its  furniture.  Bedsteads  and  beds,  beyond  whaf  he 
himself  could  use  or  seemed  to  need,  were  accumulated  in  his  sol 
itary  chamber.  Chairs  and  tables  and  mirrors  followed.  Supplies 
of  crockery,  and  other  things,  implying  the  presence  of  woman, 
were  gradually  brought  from  the  cities ;  and  conjecture  exagger 
ated  the  value  of  his  stores  and  treasures.  At  length,  the  mys 
tery  of  these  proceedings  was  explained.  Dalton  was  now  heard 
to  speak  of  mother,  wife,  and  sister — all  of  whom  he  expected 
from  England  —  to  whom  he  had  written,  and  sent,  the  necessary 
money  for  emigration.  He  spoke  of  these  relations  with  a  show 
of  feeling  which  occasionally  softened,  and  even  sweetened,  his 
,-pect  and  utterance  ;  and  seemed  to  entertain  for  them 
severally  a  degree  of  affection,  which  could  hardly  have  been 
expected  from  his  nature.  He  was  a  coarse,  uneducated  man, 
and  the  villanous  scrawl  which  declared  his  wishes  to  his  kindred, 
was  revised  by  one  of  his  neighbors,  better  read  than  himself, 
from  whom,  it  seems,  these  particulars  were  afterward  obtained. 
IT-  letter  was  despatched,  and  he  spoke  frequently  of  the  family 
which  he  expected,  and  for  which  he  had  prepared  his  dwelling, 
lilling  it  with  comforts,  to  which,  in  all  probability,  they  had 
never  before  been  accustomed. 

11  But  months  elapsed,  bringing  him  no  answer  to  his  entreaties. 
Meanwhile,  he  still  continued  his  fearful  and  criminal  employ 
ments.  Still  he  prospered  in  all  merely  pecuniary  respects. 
He  became  the  envy  of  those  who  regarded  his  accumulations 
as  the  proper  and  permanent  objects  of  desire.  But  the  wages 
of  sin  and  death  are  delusions  also;  —  mockeries,  which  mortify 
the  very  meanest  hearts,  even  when  they  are  most  sought, 
and  most  in  possession. 


THE    LEE   SHORE.  »'•:'• 

"  One  dark  and  threatening  evening  in  September,  the  wind 
blowing  a  gale  which  inerea>ed  in  fury  as  tin-  night  came  on,  a 
sail  wa<  dimly  descried  in  the   distance.      In   the  growing  dark- 
disappearcd.       But,   through    the    night,   at    intervals, 
tin-    booming*  of  a  cannon    might    he    heard.      Th<  -  -U  of 

terror  soon  ceased  ;  swallowed  up  in  the  united  mar  of  -CT,  and 
storm  and  thunder,  The  billuws.  in  moimtjiin  rollers,  came  in 
upon  tlie  sandy  shore.  But  the  tempest  did  not  affr'^r!.:  our 
wreckers.  The/  welcomed  the  increasing  violence  of  the  storm. 
They  were  abr,»r.<'  and  busy —  one  of  them  at  leaM. 

•  1  '  -dton  had  marked  the  vessel,  dimly  seen  at  sunset,  i«r  his 
prey.  The  course  of  the  wind,  the  M'as.>n.  the.  violence  of  the 
gale,  the  proximity  nf  the  fated  craft  to  the  lecshore,  all  con 
tributed  to  ill!  him  with  the  horrid  hope  of  plunder  at  the  >:\- 
life  and  humanity.  He  stole  out  from  his  hovel,  under 
cover  of  the  darki  iless  of  the  driving  fury  of  the  wind, 

to  an  elevated  hammock  of  sand,  where  he  fired  a  beacon  of  tar- 
barrels.  What  mocking  hopes  did  this  blaze  awaken  in  the  bosoms 
of  the  hapless  creatures  in  that  barque?  He  thought  nothing  of 
them.  Possibly,  other  lights  were  kindled,  like  those  of  Dalton, 
and  with  like  charitable  purposes.  The  diabolical  purpose-  was 
aptly  answered  by  the  watchful 

"That   night,  while  Dalton    crouched  in  hi.s  cabin,  he   fancied 
that  he  heard  human  voices  appealing  to  him,  above  all  the  \ 
of  the  storm.      It  was  not  the  lingering  human  feeling  within  his 
;.  which  made  him  listen  and    tremble  with  Grange   and  sti 
fling  >ci)>ati..ns.      But,  he  fancied    that    he  was   called    bv  name. 
He  fancied  that   the  rtic6l  were  familiar,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that,  in  his  very  ears  were  syllabled  in  shriek^,  the  >everal  words 
—  'brother,'    'husband,'    '  -<>n.'       He    \va>    par.tly/.ed.       A    cold 
i    his   frame.      He    could    not    -tir.     He   could   not 
speak.     He  sat   beside  his   chimney   in  a  :u].<>r.   which 

forbade  that  he  should  either  >leep  or  go  forth  ! 

:    habitual    guilt    is  a   thing  of  rare    ,  hardihood 

and  endurance.     Cupidity  came  to  his  relief.      He  meditated  the 
great   gains   of  his  trade.     The  prey  was   in  the  toils,  beyond 
possibility  of  escape,  and   before   the  dawn   its  struggles  w 
have  ceased.     The  morning  came.     With  the  lii  reak 

of  light  he  was  forth  and  upon  the  sands.     The  storm  had  sub 


61  SOUTHWARD    IK)  ' 

sided,  (lie  sun  had  opened  his  eyes,  all  brightness,  upon  the 
beautiful  world.  But  the  sens  wen-  still  tumultuous,  and  Dalton 
could  see  that  a  large  fragment  of  the  stranded  ship,  was  still 
tossing  in  their  wild  embraces  in  a  little  cove  which  the  wave- 
had  eaten  into  the  sands.  Everywhere  before  him  were  the 
proofs  of  wnv.k  and  ruin.  Hrre  a  mast  and  spar,  there  a  bit  of 
deck  and  bulwark  ;  there  rolled  a  barrel  in  upon  the  reef,  and 
tin-re  floated  away  a  naked  raft  and  hammock. 

"As  he  wandered,  seeking  *tid  picking  up  his  spoils,  he  hap 
pened  Badooolj  upon  other  trophies  of  the  storm.  On  the  very 
edge  of  the  s»-.a,  uhere  it  blended  with  the  shore  in  comparative 
calm,  lay  two  human  bodies  locked  closely  in  a  last  embrace. 
B->th  were  females.  Their  h<  ads  vested  upon  the  sands.  Their 
garments,  and  the  arms  of  one,  were  lifted  to  and  fro  by  the 
billows.  Did  they  live?  lie  approached  them  with  feelings, 
strange  to  him,  of  equal  awe  and  curiosity.  He  had  a  fearful 
presentiment  of  the  truth.  He  drew  them  from  the  waters. 
He  unclasped  them  from  that  strong  embrace  which  they  had 
taken  in  death.  He  beheld  their  faces. 
.  "'Mother!  Sister!' 

"  He  knew  them  at  a  glance  ! 

"  And  it  was  his  hand  that  had  fired  the  beacon  which  had 
conducted  both  to  death. 

1  '  M  v  wife  !  my  wife  !     I  have  drowned  my  wife  !' 

"  Where  was  she  !  He  looked  for  //•/•  in  vain.  The  remorse 
less  sea  gave  up  no  other  of  its  victims.  But  he  found  a  box 
in  which  were  his  own  letters.  They  told  her  fate. 

"  His  horror  and  remorse,  too  lately  awakened,  suffered  him  to 
keep  no  secrets.  His  first  outcry  revealed  the  whole  terrible 
history.  He  had  avenged  humanity  upon  hims«i]f.  Even  among 
the  wild  creatures  with  whom  he  herded,  the  terrible  judgment 
upon  his  own  QUMifcbfa  soul,  inflicted  \>\  his  own  deet!,  was  too 
awful  to  MMMii  to  need  other  penalties.  He  was  suiVeied  to  go 
free.  He  remained  only  long  enough  in  the  neighborhood  to 
see  the  poor  corses  deposited  in  earth,  and  then  fled,  leaving  all 
behind  him,  —  fled  into  the  interior,  and,  it  was  said,  nine  years 
afterward,  that  he  was  then  to  be  found,  somewhere  in  Ohio, 
a  sad,  gray-headed  man,  a  devout  Christian,  reconciled  to  the 
Church,  and  waiting  humbly  for  that  change,  which,  it  was  his 


THK    1MUJHIM    OF    l.OVK.  G5 

hope — and  should   be  ours,  —  might  witness  tlio  purification  of 
his  stains  through  the  saving  grace  of  his  Redeemer." 

Our  Jerseyan,  having  finished  his  voluntary  yarn,  was  voted 
the  thanks  of  the  company;  and  it  was  then  unanimously  agreed 
that  our  Gothamite  should  take  up  the  reel,  and  see  what  he 
could  do,  at  warp  and  woof,  in  the  business  of  invention. 

••  We  were  promised  a  story  of  the  troubadours,  I  think,  sir," 
said  Miss  Burroughs. 

W»>  all  concurred  in  the  subject  thus  indicated,  and,  after 
certain  modest  preliminaries,  Duyckman  gave  us  a  curious  pic 
ture  of  the  fantastical  sentiment  —  serious  enough  in  its  way  — 
of  which  we  may  find  so  many  remarkable  examples  in  the  his 
tory  of  chivalry  and  the  crusades.  It  may  not  be  amiss  to  ap 
prise  the  reader  that  he  will  find  an  actual  biography  in  what 
follows. 


TH  K    1'II.fiRIM    OK    LOVE. 

"  Sails,  oaru,  thut  might  not  save, 

The  deuth  he  sought,  to  Geoffrey  Ilucl«-l  pave." 

PETRARCH. 


THK  history  of  the  Provencal  troubadours  is  fall  of  grateful 
and  instructive  material  —  curious  as  hi>t«rv.  instructive  as  de 
veloping  a  highly-artificial  state  of  *  ml  full  of  interest 
an  literary  biography.  To  the  young  poet,  the  study  is  one 
which  will  teach  many  useful  lessons  of  his  art.  To  the  pas- 
sionatw  dreamer  of  romance,  it  will  yield  delicious  provocations 
to  revery,  in  which  all  his  ideals  will  be  satisfied.  These  biog 
raphies  should  be  written  out  by  poets  ;  not  in  \vrxr.  tor  that 
might  suggest  doubt*  of  their  veracity,  but  in  a  prose  at  once 
sparkling  and  sentimental  ;  uniting  the  oriental  fancy  of  d, 
with  the  sighing  pathos  of  a  Norton  or  a  Landon.  We  commend 
the  idea  to  study  and  examination;  and  will  content  ourselves, 
in  the  meantime,  with  a  brief  sketch  of  one  of  the  most  remark 
able  troubadours  of  his  age  and  order. 

Geoffrey  Rudel  was  a   prince  of  Blaye,  a*  well  as  a  trouba 
dour.     In  those  days,  nobility  was  not  inconsistent  with  letters. 


Gt>  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

Our  poet  was  one  of  those  who  could  wield  the  sword  as 
^ell  as  the  lyre.  He  was  a  knight  of  high  reputation,  and  a 
gentleman  ;  and,  as  such,  wore  the  honors  of  chivalry  with  all 
the  grace  of  one  "  to  the  manner  born."  But,  with  all  these 
possessions,  there  was  one  deficiency,  which  was  considered 
fatal  to  the  perfection  of  his  character.  His  grace  and  com 
were  acknowledged  in  court  and  chamber.  He  could  make  his 
enemy  tremble  in  the  field.  As  a  poet  he  had  fire  and  senti 
ment,  and  was  peculiarly  sensible  to  the  glories  of  the  visible 
world.  He  was  the  favorite  of  princes,  and  was  ranked  among 
the  friends  of  no  less  a  personage  than  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion. 
But  he  had  never  once  been  troubled  with  the  tender  passion. 
He  had  never  been  beguiled  to  love  by  beauty.  He  acknowl 
edged  the  charms  of  woman,  but  he  remained  unenslaved.  He 
could  sing  of  the  attractions  which  he  did  not  feel.  He  had  his 
muse,  perhaps  his  ideal  perfection,  and  to  her  he  sung.  He 
portrayed  her  charms,  but  he  neither  found  nor  seemed  to  seek 
them.  Tradition  vaguely  hints  at  efforts  which  he  made,  to 
discern  a  likeness  in  the  living  world  to  the  exquisite  creation 
embodied  in  his  mind.  But  he  seemed  to  search  for  her  in  vain. 
His  wanderings,  seeking  for  this  perfect  creature,  were  wholly 
without  profit.  It  does  not  seem  that  he  exulted  in  his  insensi 
bility.  An  object  of  universal  admiration  himself,  he  himself 
constantly  strove  to  admire.  He  did  admire,  but  he  did  not 
love.  The  object  of  pursuit  eluded  his  grasp.  In  those  days, 
it  was  deemed  no  impropriety,  on  the  part  of  the  fairer  sex,  to 
seek  openly  the  conquest  of  the  brave  knight  and  the  noble 
poet.  Beauty  sought  Geoffrey  Rudel  in  his  solitude.  She 
brought  him  rarest  tribute.  She  spoke  to  him  in  songs,  sweet  as 
his  own,  and  with  oriental  flowers  more  precious  than  any  which 
his  care  had  cultured.  She  did  not  conceal  the  passion  which 
his  accomplishments  had  inspired  ;  but  she  declared  her  secret 
in  vain.  His  heart  seemed  invulnerable  to  every  shaft.  Hi§ 
soul  remained  inaccessible  to  all  the  sweet  soliciting  of  love. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  he  found  pride  in  this  insensi 
bility.  He  felt  it  as  a  misfortune.  For  the  troubadour  not  to 
love,  was  to  deprive  his  verses  of  that  very  charm  which  alone 
could  secure  them  immortality.  For  the  knight  to  be  untouched 
by  the  charms  of  woman,  was  to  wither  the  greenest  chaplet 


THE   INDOLENT   KNIGHT.  67 

which  valor  had  ever  fixed  upon  his  lirow.  He  declared  his 
griefs  at  tin-  insusceptibility  of  his  heart.  His  prayer  embodied 
a  petition  that  he  might  be  made  to  love.  But  he  prayed  for 
heavenly  succor,  and  he  looked  for  earthly  loveliness,  in  vain. 
His  mind  was  greatly  saddened  by  his  condition.  His  isolation 
impaired  hi>  energies.  He  ceased  to  sing,  to  seek  the  tourney 
and  the  court,  and  delivered  himself  up  to  a  musing  and  medi 
tative  life,  which  was  only  not  utter  vacancy.  At  a  season  of 
general  bustle  among  the  nations,  he  sank  into  apathy.  He 
had  served  in  arms  with  Richard,  but  the  entreaties  of  that 
impetuous  and  powerful  monarch  no  longer  succeeded  in  be 
guiling  him  from  big  solitude.  The  world  \\  as  again  arrayed  in 
armor — the  whole  wide  world  of  Christendom  —  moving  under 
the  impulses  of  religious  fanaticism,  at  the  wild  instance  of  St. 
Bernard.  Preparations  were  in  progress  for  the  second  cnisade, 
but  the  stir  of  the  multitude  aroused  no  answering  chord  in  his 
affections.  He  put  on  no  armor;  his  shield  hung  upon  his 
walls  ;  his  spear  rusted  beneath  it,  and  no  trumpet  was  sounded 
at  1.  Like  one  overcome  with  sloth,  Geoffrey  Kudel 

lay  couched  within  the  <juiet  retreats  of  his  castle  near  Hour- 
deaux,  and  gave  no  heed  to  the  cries  and  clamors  of  the  world 
without.  But  his  soul  had  not  lapsed  away  in  luxuries  He 
was  immersed  in  no  plea-i::  .-xciting  than  tl 

UN  soul  was  full  of  sadness  rather  than  delight.  His  l\r« 
forth  the  tenderest  pieadii.^.  an-i  the  mo.-t  touching  la:..eiif ation. 
His  heart  WU  lilled  with  sorrow,  as  he  entreated  vainly  that  it 
should  be  filled  with  love.  Very  sweet  were  his  ballad*;  plain 
tive  al\\ay-.  and  teeming  uih  faiu  :;•-,  which  faiuly  sought  to 
ally  themselves  to  affections.  With  a  soul  given  up  to  •.•ontfiij- 
plation>,  which,  if  not  loving,  were  not  warlike,  he  gave  no  heed 
to  the  nio\  ements.  or  even  the  reproaches  of  his  brethren  — 
knights  and  troubadours.  The  preaching  of  St.  Bernard  touch 
ed  not  him.  We  do  not  know  that  he  ever  listen.  •  >  that 
great  apostle  of  the  crusade-  ;  nor,  indeed,  can  we  j-n-h-nd  to 
it  that  his  conversion  e\er  form.-.!  a  .special  object  with  the 
preacher.  But  the  entreaties  of  others  were  urged  upon  him, 
and  without  success.  He  answered  them  with  a  nielancholy 
denial,  which  ib>clared  hi-  more  than  his  indirlerence. 
of  his  ditties,  written  at  this  period,  have  been  preserved 


68  SOUTHWARD   HO! 

to  us.  They  arc  remarkable  for  their  delicacy,  their  plaintive- 
m •-<  of  tone,  the  nice  taste  by  which  his  spirit  was  informed, 
and  the  grief  of  those  yearnings,  the  denial  of  which  was  the 
true  cause  of  his  lethargy.  The  muse  to  which  he  now  yielded 
himself  was  that  of  a  latent  affection.  The  wild  spirit  of  war 
fare  had  no  voice  for  his  soul.  He  sung — but  why  not  suffer 
him  to  speak  for  himself,  those  tender  sensibilities  which  he  has 
put  into  verse,  not  wholly  unworthy  of  his  renown  ?  Our  rude 
English  version  may  show  the  character  of  his  sentiment,  if  not 
the  peculiar  art  and  the  ingenuity  of  his  strain.  He  speaks  in 
this  sonnet  of  his  despondency,  and  of  that  ideal  which  he  de 
spairs  to  find  in  life. 

"  From  nature  comes  the  lesson  of  true  love  — 

She  teache*  me,  through  flowers  end  fruits,  to  grace 

My  foi-ri  in  pay  apparel,  and  to  prove 

For  how  much  heart  my  own  ran  fi.n.i-h  place. 

The  nightingale  hit*  tender  mate  caresses, 
Caressed  in  turn  by  mutual  look  and  strain  ; 

Ah  !   happj  birds,  whom  genial  love  thus  blessex, 
Ye  t»-;ir;i  me  what  to  aeek,  yet  teach  in  vain. 

I  languish  (till  in  silence  —  your  delight  — 

The  shepherd  with  his  pipe  —  the  eii.Ker  child, 
That  makes  his  labor  speak  in  pleasures  wild  — 

AU  that  I  hear,  and  all  that  lives  in  sight  — 
Still  mock  me  \sith  denial.  In  my  woe» 
The  whole  world  triumphs.  Still  the  image  glows, 

More  and  more  brightly  on  my  yearning  eye  — 
A  thousand  passionate  hopes  deny  repose, 

And  warm  rue  still  with  promises  that  fly! 

Oh!  my  soul's  image,  when  shall  these  be  o'er, 

When   shrill   1   si-c  thcr  nrar,  and   «srrk  thee  nrvri    more.'1 

This  is  a  sweet  murmur,  not  overstrained,  and  happily  ex 
pressed.  It  should  have  silenced  the  reproaches  which  were  at 
length  showered  upon  his  head.  It  shows  him  to  have  possessed 
a  soul  at  once  tender  and  passionate,  if  not  susceptible;  and 
such  now  was  the  usual  burden  of  his  song.  But  it  failed  to 
convince  his  neighbors.  Beauty,  disappointed  in  all  her  en 
deavors,  proclaimed  him  an  insensible.  We  little  know,  at  this 
day,  how  keen  ami  terrible  was  such  a  reproach,  at  a  period 
when  love  was  the  very  s-.nl  ,,f  chivalry.  Knighthood  regarded 
him  as  a  recreant  to  its  order,  which  ii, sifted  upon  a  mistress  as, 


THE    LADY    OF   TRIPOLI.  «»!« 

the  first  an-1  most  powerful  incentive  t«.  valor.  He  was  called 
by  inanv  cruel  epithets  —  cold,  selti>h,  ungentle;  barren  of 
heart,  capricious  and  peevi>h  ;  loving  himself  only,  like  anothei 
Narcissus,  when  a  whole  world,  worthy  of  a  better  heart,  crowd 
ed  around  him  soliciting  his  love;  and  this,  too,  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  was  repining  with  the  tendere.-t  yearnings,  for 
»nme  one  object,  precious  over  all,  upon  whom  to  expend  the 
whole  wealth  of  his  affections.  But  he  was  not  long  to  yearn 
thus  hopelessly.  The  fates  were  about  to  giv;  an  an>wer  to  the 
cruel  reproaches  under  which  he  had  Miriered.  They  were 
about  to  show  that  his  passion  was  intense  in  proportion  to  the 
inheijuency  of  its  exert-':.,.-.  \ii<  de>!iny  wa  >  «tuito  a>  curious  as 
it  is  touching  :  we  say  this  by  way  of  warning.  The  reader 
mu>t  know  that  we  are  writing  <r.ber  history.  "We  are  not  now 
practicing  with  arti'ul  rou**ficei  -ipou  his  fancy.  The  chronicles 
are  before  us  as  we  write.  We  are  fettered  by  the  ancient 
record,  in  complexion  of  the  most  sombre  black-letter. 

It  was  while  Geoffrey  Uudel  thus  lay,  sad  and  sighing,  at  his 
castle  of  T.laye,  near  Bordeaux,  that  news  came  from  the  Holy 
Land,  which    set    Christendom    o.ice    more   in   commotion.     Th-- 
Crusaders  had   gone   forward  in  iron    legions.     They  had 
successful  in  every  battle,  and    their  triumphs  were   upon  every 
tongue.      Jerusalem,  the  Holy  City,  had  fallen  before  their  Arms, 
alter  prodigie.s  of  valor  had  been  >hown  in  its  defence.      But 
deeds   of   knighthood,   and    the    bloody    triumphs    of  the    battle 
field,  weiv  not  alone  the  theme  of  the  troubadour  and   rh«-.  trav- 
eller.     The  story  which,  above   all.  had  served  to  enliven   the 
imagination,  and  charm  the  lyre  of  Kurope,  v\  as  that  o»  a  ceitain 
"•luntess    of   Tripoli —  a    lady,    whose    bravery,    under    circum 
stanci'.s  of  particular  difficulty  and  peril,  was  deemed  the  Mibjn-t 
qr*  greatest  wonder  and  delight.      Her  beauty  had  been  already 
Ming.       It    was  now  ennobled    in    I'mvenral    minMn -1>\ ,   by   in 
stances  of  courage,  iiiagnanimitN  .  and  great ne>s  of  soul,  such  as 
had    seldom  been    shown  by  her  sex   before.      Her  elastic    t\ 
the  fmnne.->  of  her  soul,  the  grace  of  her  carriage,  the  l»\eliness 
of  her  face  and  per-m.  were  duly  recorded  in  a  thousand  ditties. 
The    pilgrims  from  the    Holy  Land  could  speak  of  nothing  • 
The  troubadour  caught  up  the  grateful    history,  and  found  new 


70  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

inspiration  in  the  recital.  Faint  echoes  of  the  story  reached  our 
disconsolate  poet,  and  fell  with  a  renovating  influence  upon  his 
spirit.  He  heard,  and  hearkened  with  a  greedy  interest.  The 
recital  touched  the  dormant  chords  of  his  nature.  He  grew 
excited  as  he  listened,  suddenly  flung  ofl'  his  lethargy,  and  soon 
his  lyre  began  to  emulate  and  excel  all  others,  in  rehearsing  the 
charms  of  her  person  and  the  beauties  of  her  soul.  He  all  at 
once  realized  his  ideal.  The  countess  of  Tripoli  was  the  creature 
of  all  his  imaginings.  The  image  in  his  soul  had  found  a  living 
likeness.  It  had  long  been  the  image  in  his  dreams — it  was 
now  the  object  of  his  waking  passion.  It  filled  the  measure  ot 
his  hopes  ;  it  heightened  the  glory  of  his  dreams.  He  loved  — 
he  was  no  longer  without  a  soul. 


THE  imagination  of  our  troubadour  thu?  powerfully  excited, 
it  was  not  surprising  that  he  should  enjoy  a  glorious  vision  of 
the  lady  of  his  thoughts.  He  lay  sleeping,  during  a  slumberous 
summer  evening,  in  a  favorite  bower  of  his  garden  :  his  lute, 
resting  beside  him,  was  silent  also;  but  lie  still  clasped  between 
his  fingers  the  illuminated  missal,  in  which  the  wandering  monk, 
scarcely  less  infatuated  than  himself,  had  sought  to  enshrine  the 
beauties  of  the  Lady  of  Tripoli  in  the  character  of  tin  HIe>sed 
Virgin.  In  the  deep  draughts  of  delirious  passion  which  the 
picture  had  helped  to  enliven,  the  troubadour  might  well  lapse 
away  from  delicious  fancie.s  into  as  delicious  dreams.  The  warm 
sun  of  his  region  helped  the  influence.  The  birds  of  I'rovenco 
mini.xtered  also  —  winging  overhead  those  sweet  <-(ij>n>,  n>s,  hall 
play,  half  sentiment,  which  seem  to  have  furnished  the  model 
for  many  of  the  best  specimens  of  Provencal  poetry.  The 
fln\vei>  jzav.  i'ortli  a  soft,  persuasive  fragrance.  The  leaves 
floated  to  and  fro  upon  the  slenderest  green  vines,  under  the. 
balmy  influence  •>{'  the  southern  breeze,  ever  and  anon  stooping 
to  his  floating  hair,  and  trembling  over  his  somewhat  pallid 
cheek.  A  favorite  greyhound  slept  at  his  feet,  his  long  l-i  >\vn 
nose  resting  upon  the  gayly-wroughl  .^Uppers  which  enclosed  I  hem. 
Warm  fancies,  working  with  the,  .season  and  the  scene,  proved 
to  our  poet  as  deliciously  unrcotizing  as  those  fabled  breezes 


THE    VISION    OK    I  UK   TROUBADOUR.  71 

that  swoop  with  delirium  the  poppy  gardens  of  Yemen.  The 
protracted  denial  <»t'  his  previous  life  was  all  OOttpeMtfecl  in  the 
intoxicating  fancy  of  the  hour.  The  creature  of  his  imperfeet 
waking  desires,  grew  to  a  perfect  being  iu  his  dreams,  lie  lfa4 
transported  to  Paradise,  a  region  which,  at  that  moment,  he 
;ouM  find  at  Tripoli  only.  And  she  came  forth  the  first,  to  hid 
him  welcome.  His  reception  was  not  only  one  of  blessing  hut 
of  ceremonial.  The  lady  of  his  love  was  environed  l.y  state; 
hut  this  did  not  lessen  the  benignity  of  her  favor.  Princes  w. -re 
grouped  armnd  her — the  severe  and  stately  forms  of  the 
Knights  of  the  Temple  —  the  humbler,  but  not  les*  imposing 
Bribers  ..f  :!  t  Il-.spital —  and  many  others,  knights  and  nobles, 
with  their  banners  and  their  shields.  And  he  himself — he, 
prince  of  Blaye  —  -was  in  the  midst  of  the 
splendid  circle  —  the  person  to  whom  all  eyes  were  drawn  — 
upon  whom  her  eye  was  specially  fastened  —  she.  the  nearest 
to  his  heart  and  person,  the  lovely  countess  of  Tripoli.  But  a 
moment  was  the  glorious  vision  vouchsafed  him;  but,  even  as  it 
began  to  fade  away  —  growing  momentarily  more  and  more  dim, 
without  growing  less  beautiful  —  he  caught  the  whispered  words 
of  her  parting  salutation  —  "Hither  to  me,  Rudel  —  hither  to 
me  —  aid  the  love  that  thou  -eekest,  and  the  peace  —  shall  they 
not  both  be  thine  ?" 


in. 

THIS  was  a  bliss  too   great  for  slumber.     It  was  a  bliss  too 

precious  to  lose  at  waking.  Rudel  necessarily  awakened  with 
the  excess  <»f  rapture.  He  started  to  his  feet  with  a  new  im 
pulse  The  birds  sang,  hut  vainly,  from  his  trees.  The  flowers 
in  vain  stretched  forth  to  his  hand.  He  heeded  not  the  endear 
ments  «,t'  his  greyhound,  who  started  up  at  the  same  moment 
with  his  master,  and  whined,  and  lifted  his  paws  to  receive  the 
accustomed  caresses.  He  saw  these  things  no  longer.  The  old 
temptations  and  pleasures  were  discarded  or  forgotten.  A  new 
soul  seemed  to  inform  his  spirit.  A  new  hope  was  embodied  in 
his  heart.  He  had  received  in  that  dream  an  inspiration.  What 
was  tenderness  Minplv  in  his  heart  before,  was  now  passion.  His 
dream  was  reality.  He  no  longer  sighed  —  he  felt,  lie  lived 


72  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

at  last ;  for,  until  ono  loves,  he  can  not  be  said  to  live.  The 
life  of  humanity  is  love.  The  new  passion  prompted  new  ener 
gies.  Geoffrey  Rudel  was  still  at  Blaye,  but  he  might  soon  be 
at  Tripoli.  He  made  his  preparations  for  Tripoli  accordingly. 
Once  more  his  good  steed  was  put  in  exercise.  His  shield  waa 
taken  from  the  wall.  His  lance  was  cleansed  of  its  rust,  and 
glittered  gayly  in  the  sunbeams,  as  if  rejoicing  in  its  resumed 
employments.  The  proud  spirit  of  knighthood  was  once  more 
rekindled  in  the  bosom  of  our  hero.  He  was  again  a  living  man, 
with  all  the  tenderness  which  inspires  bravery  to  seek  adven 
ture.  It  was  easy  now  to  feel  all  the  enthusiasm  at  which  it 
was  his  wont  to  smile ;  and  he  could  now  look  with  regret  and 
mortification  at  those  days  of  apathy  which  kept  him  in  repose 
when  St.  Bernard  went  through  the  land,  preaching  his  mission 
of  power.  He  could  nov.  r.n.lerstand  tlie  virtue  of  leaving  home 
and  family,  friends  and  fortune,  to  fight  for  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 
The  spirit  of  the  crusade  sudde.nly  impiv :  irnated  his  soul.  Sol 
emnly  he  took  n j)  the  cross  —  literally,  in  the  figure  upon  his 
garments  —  and  made  hi.s  preparations  lor  embarking  for  the 
Kast.  Never  had  a  change  so  sudden  been  wrought  in  human 
bosom.  Nor  did  he  conceal  the  true  occasion  of  the  miracle. 
When  did  troubadour  ever  withhold  the  secret  of  his  passion  j 
It  was  his  pride  to  reveal.  Geoffrey  Rudel  loved  at  last.  He, 
too,  could  be  made  to  yield  to  the  spells  of  beauty.  His  lyre 
was  not  silent.  He  unfolded  himself  in  the  most  exquisite  im- 
provvisations,  which  we  should  but  coldly  render  in  our  harsh 
language  of  the  North.  He  who  had  been  all  apathy  before, 
\v;t-  now  all  excitement.  His  limits  trembled  with  the  wild  feve; 
in  liis  vein-;.  A  deep  spot  of  red  grew  suddenly  apparent  on 
hi.s  faded  cheek.  A  tone  of  nervous  impatience  now  distin 
guished  the  utterance  which  had  hitherto  been  gentle  and  for 
bearing  always.  His  muse  spoke  more  frequently,  and  witn 
a  spasmodic  energy,  which  had  not  been  her  usual  characteris 
tic.  We  preserve  another  of  his  sonnets,  feebly  rendered  into 
our  dialect,  which  he  penned  just  before  leaving  Provence  i->r 
tfie  East :  — 

"  Sin-  I  M.lnic,  \vlium,  savi-  in  nightly  dn-ains, 

Tiii->i'  «-yfs  linvr  iii-Vr  Ix-liflci,  vi-t  ;nn   I  sur* 
Sht;  is  no  oilier  tlnui  the  thing  she  s«-t  > 
A  tiling  for  !ovr  nrnl  Wr<mhip  »-\.  imoic 


THE  TROUBADOUR  DEPARTS.  7$ 

On  '  not  y,ur  .l.,ik-.-\.-.|   heautie,  of  lli-- 

Jewish  or  Saracen —  nor  yet  the  fair, 
Your  bright-cheeked  maid*  of  Christendom,  the  belt 

For  saintly  virtues  Hn<!  endowment*  rare  — 
May  rank  with  her  whom  yet  I  do  not  see, 

To  whom  I  may  not  speak  —  who  does  not  know 
My  homage,  yet  who  nightly  comes  to  mi', 

And  bids  my  hornvs  revive,  my  passion  glow. 
With  day  *he  di.-appears,  and  then  alone, 

I  know  that  she  is  distant:  —  I  will  fly; 

•  •  the  <!••»•]>  spai-»-  liftvi-en  thai  foreign  gky, 
And  bait?  to  her  the  heart  so  much  her  own. 

The  (»eaa  will  not  betray  me,  when  they  know 
I.      •    is  mv  euiileand  bids  me  death  defy." 

His  preparations  were  not  long  delayed.  His  soul  was  too 
eager  in  its  new  passion  to  permit  of  any  unnecessary  waste  of 
time.  \l\^  Hame  bad  become  a  frenzy  —  the  leading1  idea  of  his 
mind,  which  reason  had  ceased  to  re>ist.  and  which  friends  no 
longer  ventured  to  combat.  His  preparations  completed,  and 
the  hark  ready,  his  pen  records  one  of  the  usual  vows  of  knight- 
errantry.  In  the.  following  sonnet,  he  professes  that  humility 
which  was  commonly  vet  forth  quite  too  ostentatiously  to  he  sin 
cere  always;  hnt  which,  in  his  case,  the,  spqual  of  our  story  will 
show  to  have  been  deeply  seated  in  his  s<»nl.  We  shall  not  find 
it  necessary  to  call  the  attention  particularly  to  the  delicacy  of 
the  sentiments  contained  in  these  selections  —  a  delicacy,  we 
may  add,  which  speaks  more  certainly  for  the  particular  instance 
re  us,  than  it  ordinarily  did,  at  that  period,  for  the  general 
character  of  chivalry  :  — 

"  Tis  sworn  that  I  depart  —  ami  rlail  in  wool 

With  pilgrim  Ifaffbefano  her  eyes  I  go  — 

Glad,  if   with  pity  for  my  love  urn!  wo, 
She  suffers  me  within  IM-I   palace  rule. 

But  this  wen-  to.>  much  jov.      Enough  to  In- 
Near  th«-  blest  city  \\hirii  .-li.    ki-ep.,  though  there, 

The  triumph  of  the  Sai 
And  full  a  captive  to  his  |>(>w  ,-tn<l 

Heaven  grant  me  the  sweet  hlr-nim;  in  the  prayer!  — 
Transport  me  thither  —  let  me,  in  her  sight, 

The  rapture,  l-orii  ot  :  ..,  share, 

And  live  to  ionc  within  her  huppy  light, 

The  love  that  fills  my  soul,  to  pour  into  her  ear." 

4 


74  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

The  sentiment  that  touched  the  soul  of  Geoffrey  Rudel,  was 
certainly  no  common  one.  It  may  have  been  a  fanaticism,  but 
it  was  such  a  fanaticism  as  could  only  happen  to  a  poet.  In  in 
ferior  degree,  however,  the  frenzy  was  not  an  unusual  one.  It 
belonged  to  the  age  and  to  his  profession,  if  the  performances  of 
the  troubadour,  at  any  time,  could  properly  deserve  this  title ! 
Common  to  his  order,  it  was  heightened  as  well  as  refined  by 
the  peculiar  temper  of  his  individual  mind,  and  by  that  con 
templative,  inner  or  spiritual  life  which  he  had  lived  so  long. 
Though  spoken  aloud,  and  fondly  and  frequently  reiterated,  it 
was  no  momentary  ebullition.  The  passion  had  fastened  upon 
his  mind  and  his  affections  equally,  and  was  fixed  there  by  the 
grateful  image  that  informed  his  dreams.  These,  repeated 
nightly,  according  to  the  tradition,  gave  him  no  time  to  cool. 
Their  visitation  was  periodical.  Their  exhortation  was  pres 
sing.  They  proved  upon  his  strength,  and  his  physical  powers 
declined  in  due  degree  with  the  wondrous  increase  of  his  mental 
energies.  He  set  sail  for  Palestine  with  all  the  fervor  of  his 
enthusiasm  upon  him,  as  warm  and  urgent  as  when  it  had  seized 
upon  him  first.  The  voyage  was  protracted,  and  the  disease  of 
our  pilgrim  underwent  increase  from  its  annoyances.  But,  if  his 
frame  suffered,  the  energies  of  his  soul  were  unimpaired.  His 
muse  was  never  in  better  wing  or  vigor.  Still  he  sung,  and 
with  all  the  new-born  exultation  of  a  lover.  The  one  hope  of 
his  heart,  the  one  dream  of  his  fancy,  gave  vitality  to  every  ut 
terance.  The  image  of  the  beautiful  and  noble  Countess  of 
Tripoli  was  reflected  from,  and  through,  all  his  sonnets,  as 
through  a  mirror  of  magic.  Of  their  usual  burden,  a  single 
specimen  will  suffice  :  — 

"  When  my  foot  presses  on  those  sacred  shores  — 
To  me  thrice  sacred,  ns  they  hear  the  sign, 

That,  lifted  hiph,  nil  Christendom  ndores — 
And  tin-  proud  hennty  I  have  lo\ed  a*  mine  — 

My  sonp  shall  speak  my  passion —  she  shall  hear 
How  rnurh  I  love —  )io\v  powerful  is  the  sway, 
Her  charms  maintain  o'er  heart  so  far  away, 

That,  until  now,  no  other  chains  could  wear. 

Ah,  nine,  she  will  not  lot  me  sinp  i'>  vain  — 
Such  deep  (l«-v. itinti,  Mich  abiding  trust, 
Love,  so  wholly  born  of  her  own  lieaiily,  must 

Touch  her  sweet  spirit  with  a  pleasing  pain  ! 


TIN:  I'Yivi;    riioritADOUR.  75 


Shou.  /  -h'    pruvo  ruthless  —  no,  it  can  not  be 
My  god-sire  gave  such  c\il  fate  to  me." 

The  last  allusion  in  this  poem  may  not  be  so  readily  under- 
1  in  our  times.     It  is  still  a  subject  of  some  discussion.     It 
is  thought  by  some  to  have  reference  to  the  old  tradition  of  gifts 
•wed  by  fairies  upon  persons  in  their  infancy.     Our  own  no 
tion  is,  that  it  is  taken  from  one  of  the  institutions  of  chivalry. 
A  knight  was  said  to  be  born  only  when  he  had  received  the 
honors  of  knighthood.    At  this  ceremony  he  had  a  god-father  or 
sponsor.     This  person  was  usually  chosen  by  the  novice  in  con 
sideration  of  his  high  renown,  his  bravery  and  good  fortune.     A 
•tin  portion  of  these  good  qualities  were  naturally  siippo-rd 
capable  of  transmission.     The   sponsor  answered  for  the  good 
qualities  of  the  youthful   squire,  and  bestowed  on  him  his  bles 
sing  with  his  counsel.     The  allusion  in  the  verses  quoted  is  not 
obscure,  if  we  remember  the  relationship  between  the  parties. 

IV. 

BUT  we  must  not  linger.  The  excitement  of  our  troubadour 
increased  with  the  voyage.  It  was  hardly  restrainable  within 
the  bounds  of  sanity  a<  the  ship  approached  her  port  of  destina 
tion.  Rudcl  wa.s  beloved  by  all  on  board.  His  grace,  talent, 
gallantry,  and  cnth'iMasm,  had  touched  all  hearts.  The  curious 
history  of  his  passion  had  lifted  him  in  their  admiration  and 
wonder.  They  saw,  with  many  misgivings,  that  it  was  growing 
momently  at  the  peril  .  f  his  life  and  reason.  Hut  it  was  vain  to 
expostulate  with  one  so  completely  lifted  by  his  fervor  beyond 
the  reach  of  ordinary  arguimnt.  He  ate  but  little  and  had  no 
appetite.  His  ailments,  derived  \\  holly  from  the  strange  flame 
by  which  he  was  possessed,  were  yet  stimulating  inflm  • 
which  gave  him  strength  in  the  absence  of  mortal  nutriment. 
Very  thin,  indeed,  were  the  cheek-  which  yet  brightened  with 
the  liveliest  intelligence.  The  skin  of  his  face  had  become  8O 
delicately  white  and  transparent,  that  the  blue  veins  stood  out 
prominent  upon  hi-  forehead,  and  you  might  trace  everywhere 
the  progres.s  ..f  the  fiery  blood  through  his  face  and  hands.  Hi- 
eye  wore  a  wild,  unnatural  intensity  that  seemed  to  dart  through 
the  beholder.  And  yet  it  was  apparent,  even  then,  that  the 


76  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

Blanco  which  seemed  to  penetrate  your  soul,  was  full  of  intelli 
gence  to  which  you  were  not  a  party.  The  soul  of  that  glance 
was  elsewhere,  far  in  advance  of  the  slowly-sailing  ship,  in 
search  of  the  mistress  of  his  desires. 

Fearful  was  the  fever  that  preyed  upon  his  enfeebled  lV:;in.v 
Yet,  while  momently  sinking  in  the  sight  of  all,  his  heart  was 
full  of  hope  and  courage.  There  was  a  cheering  and  sur 
prising  elasticity  in  his  tones  —  an  exulting  consciousness  of  as 
sured  success  in  voice  and  asj.cvt  —  which  made  him  superior  to 
all  human  anxieties.  While  no  one  even  supposed  he  could 
over  reach  the  shore  alive,  he  himself  had  no  doubts  that  he 
would  certainly  do  so.  His  confidence  in  this  destiny  raised 
strange  supernatural  convictions  in  his  brother  knights,  the  com 
panions  of  his  voyage.  Their  interest  in  his  fate  increased 
as  they  beheld  and  listened.  He  spoke  to  them  freely,  and 
poured  forth,  at  frequent  moments,  the  sentiments  which  were 
inspired  by  his  passion.  The  exquisite  sonnets  which  were  thus 
delivered,  seemed  to  them  the  utterance  of  a  being  already  re 
leased  from  human  bonds  ;  they  were  so  tender,  so  hopeful,  and 
withal  so  pure.  The  extravagance  of  his  Hame  was  forgotten  in 
its  purity.  The  wildness  of  his  delirium  was  sweet,  because  of 
its  grace  and  delicacy.  They  spread  their  fruits  before  him, 
and  poured  forth  their  beakers  of  Greek  wine,  to  persuade  him 
to  partake  of  more  nourishing  food  than  any  which  his  passion 
could  provide;  and  he  smiled  as  he  tasted  of  their  fruits,  and 
lifting  the  goblet  to  his  lips,  he  chanted  :  — 


"Ay,  hriiifi  inr  wine  <>t  Cyprus, 

The  sweetest  of  tin-  UH>M  •. 
And  we  will  drink,  while  passing, 

A  brimful  draught  of  love,  — 
The  liiughing  wine  of  Cyprim, 

A  brimful  draught  for  me; 
And  I  will  yield  while;  passing 

The  goldet  to  the  sea  ! 
Yes!   Bring  me  wine  of  Cyj 

And,  without  quaffing,  he  flung  the  beaker  into  the  deep.  He 
needed  not  the  stimulus  of  wine.  As  he  had  no  longer  a  rel 
ish  for  earthly  nourishment,  so  it  had  no  power  upon  his  blood 
or  spirit. 


THK    Ml  U.I/KU.  77 

They  were  cheered  at  length  with  the  sight  of  the  shores  of 
Palestine,  —  the  Promised  Land,  indeed,  to  him.  But  such  an 
enthusiasm  as  that  which  had  possessed  his  >"iil  could  not  have 
been  entertained  by  any  mortal,  except  at  vital  ha/ard.  His 
joy  became  convulsion.  Lifted  from  the  vessel  and  placed  with 
his  t'eet  upon  the  earth,  he  sank  down  in  a  SWOON,  to  all  appear 
ance  dead.  But  the  faith  which  he  had  in  the  p'-^nlse  of  his 
dream,  was  sufficient  to  reanimate  his  strength.  Borne  on  a  lit 
ter  to  the  nearest  dwelling,  the  wonderful  story  of  his  ras#ion, 
and  of  his  voyage  in  pursuit  of  its  object,  was  soon  borne  through 
Tripoli.  It  reached,  among  others,  the  ears  of  the  noble  lady 
\s-lio  had  been  so  innocently  the  cause  of  his  misfortunes.  Then 
it  was  that  he  realized  the  vision  that  blessed  him  while  he  slept 
At  Blaye.  The  princess  of  Tripoli  wa>  sensible  to  all  his  sor 
rows.  She  was  touched  by  the  devotion  of  the  troubadour,  and, 
even  as  lie  lay  in  a  state  of  swoon  that  looked  the  image  of 
^eath  itself,  liis  ears  caught  once  more  the  endearing  summons, 
and  the  accents  of  that  melodious  voice,  which  had  aroused  him 
from  his  despondency  and  dreams.  Once  more  it  whispered  to 
his  exulting  soul  the  happy  invitation  :  "Hither  to  me,  Rudel, 
hitherto  me  ;  and  the  love  that  thon  seekest  —  and  the  peace  — 
shall  they  not  Loth  b.-  thine?" 

V. 

Tur-r.  drar  \\-opU  iiim  from  his  swoon.     He  opened 

liis  eves  upon  the  light,  but  it  was  only  to  close  them  for  ever. 
But  they  bad  gaii"  •!  all  that  was  precious  in  that  one  opening 
The  s'lMtrle  glance  apmnd  him,  by  the  dying  t  mubadour.  sin  .u  -ed 
li'Mi  all  that  lie  had  sought.  Her  holy  and  BWett  face  was  the 
first  that  he  beheld.  Her  c\,  -,  smiled  encouragement  and  love. 
It  was  lin-  precioni  embrace  that  succored  hU  sinking  frame. 
These  tender  offices,  let  it  not  be  forgotten,  were  not.  in  those 
days,  inconsistent  with  the  purest  virtue.  The  young  maiden 

was  frequently  nane  and  phy sfcUn to tlie  rtnuigter kftif b t     She 

brought  him  nourishment  and  medicine,  dressed  his  wounds, 
.scrupled  at  no  act,  however  delicate,  which  v. 

sary  to  bis  recovery.  Our  countess  had  been  laugh;  ?••  perform 
these  offices,  not  merely  as  acts  of  duty,  but  as  acts  ..f  lev 


78  SOUTliWAKD    Ho  1 

It  is  probable  that  a  deeper  interest  in  the  sufferer  before  her 
gave  a  warmer  solicitude  to  her  ministrations.  She  had  heard 
the  whole  story  of  our  troubadour,  and  of  the  influence  which 
she  had  possessed  in  rousing  him  from  Ins  apathy  into  life,  even 
though  that  awakening  had  been,  finally,  fatal  to  life  itself. 
Of  his  gracrs  and  virtues  she  knew  before,  and  many  were  the 
admirer*  who  hi*d  already  taught  her  how  sweet  and  passionate. 
and  how  purely  due  to  herself,  were  the  songs  and  sonnets  of 
Rudel.  It  was  even  whispered  that  their  offices  were  by  no 
means  necessary  to  her  knowledge.  There  were  those  who 
insisted  that  there  had  been  some  strange  spiritual  commerce 
between  tlio  parties,  though  so  many  leagues  asunder.  The 
story  ran  that  Geoffrey  Rudel  had  been  as  much  the  object  of 
her  dreaming  fancies  as  she  had  been  of  his.  They  said  that 
while  he  beheld  her  in  the  inspiring  vision  of  the  noonday,  in 
his  garden  at  lilaye,  she  herself,  in  a  state  of  prolonged  trance 
at  Tripoli,  was  conscious  of  his  presence,  and  of  her  own  inter 
est  in  his  fate,  elsewhere.  It  is  certain  that  she  betrayed  no 
surprise  when  she  heard  his  story  fr.im  mortal  lips.  She  be 
trayed  no  surprise  at  his  coming,  and  she  was  among  the  first 
to  attend  the  bedside  of  th»»  dying  man.  He  felt  her  presence, 
as  one,  even  in  sleep,  feels  the  sudden  sunshine.  Ht-  breathed 
freely  at  her  approach,  as  if  the  flitting  soul  were  entreated  back 
for  a  moment,  by  her  charms,  to  its  prison-house  of  mortality. 
She  embraced  him  as  he  lapsed  away,  while  her  eyes,  dropping 
the  biggest  tears,  were  lifted  up  to  heaven  in  resignation,  but 
with  grief.  He,  in  that  mysterious  inoir.r;vt,  gazed  only  upon 
her.  1 1  is  fading  glance  was  filled  with  exultation.  His  hope 
was  realized*  He  expired,  thrice  happy,  since  he  expired  in 
her  arms.  The  prophetic  vision  had  deceived  him  in  no  single 
particular.  She  was  one  of  the  first  to  receive  and  welcome 
him.  Hi-  reception  had  been  one  of  state  and  sympathizing 
ceremonial.  He  beheld,  even  as  he  died,  the  very  groups  which 
hi-  dream  had  shown  him.  There  were  the  severe  and  stately 
aspects  of  the  Knights  <>t  the  Temple  —  there  again  were  the 
humbler  Brothers  of  the  Hospital.  Princes  and  barons  drew 
nigh  in  armor  and  resting  upon  their  .shields,  as  at  a  solemn  ser 
vice  ;  ami  he  was  in  the  midst,  the  figure  to  whom  all  eyes  were 
addressed,  and  she,  tl  e  nearest  to  his  heart,  was  also  the  near- 


THK    BRIDAL    OF    PKATH.  79 

est  to  his  person.  The  love  and  tin-  peace  which  she  had  prom 
ised  him  completed  the  full  consciousness  of  his  exulting  spirit. 

All  these  things  had  really  come  t<>  pass.  But  the  stately 
ceremonial,  which  his  flattering  fancies  hail  pemuufad  him  \\  a-> 
his  ln-iilal.  \vas  in  troth  his  funeral.  Dying,  thus  surrounded, 
he  felt  that  it  was  a  bridal  also.  In  the  brief  communion  which 
his  eyes  enjoyed  with  those  of  her  he  loved,  he  felt  that  their 
soul-  were  united.  She  said  to  him,  as  plainly  as  eyes  could 
speak  — "  Tlie  hive  and  the  peace  thou  seekest,  shall  they  not 
be  thine  ?"  and  in  this  happy  faith  he  yielded  up  his  spirit  on 
her  bosom.  He  was  magnificently  buried  among  the  Knights 
Templars  at  Tripoli.  Scarcely  had  this  last  ceremonial  taken 
place,  when  the  woman  he  had  so  worshipped  made  a  sign, 
which  seemed  to  confirm  the  previous  rumors  of  their  strange 
spiritual  sympathies.  Her  heart  was  certainly  more  deeply 
interested  in  his  fate  than  might  well  have  been  the  case,  had 
their  mutual  souls  not  communed  before.  The  very  day  of  his 
death,  -he  who  had  lived  a  princess,  in  the  very  eye  of  pleased 
and  wondering  nations,  suddenly  retired  from  the  world.  Sin- 
buried  her  head,  if  not  her  secret,  beneath  the  hood  of  the 
el<>i>:.T.  "They  were  placed  to  -deep  apart."  says  the  ancient 
chronicle,  "  but,  by  the  Virgin's  grace,  the\  wake  together!" 

An  old  I'roveiiral  author,  whose  name  is  unknown,  write*  : 
"The  Viscount  Geoffrey  Rudel,  in  passing  the  seas  to  visit  his 
lady,  voluntarily  died  for  her  sake."  His  passion  has  been 
deemed  worthy  of  the  recording  IIIUM-  of  Petrarch,  who  says: 
"  Hy  the  aid  of  sails  and  oars,  (ieoilroi  Undid  obtained  the  boon 
of  death  which  he  desired."  We  ha\  e  furnished  the  ample 
history  of  this  event.  In  one  of  the  ancient  metaphysical  dis>- 
c  unions  so  common  in  the  Courts  of  Love,  during  the  pie  valence 
of  chivalry,  one  of  the  questions  proposed  for  discussion  was  as 
follows  :  — 

"Which  contributes  most  powerfully  to  inspire  l..\e  —  MMiti- 
meut  or  sight  I —  the  heart  or  the  eyes  1" 

The  case  was  at  once  decided  in  favor  of  sentiment  when  the 
story  of  our  tronhadonr  was  told.  Once  more,  this  narrative  is 
no  tiction,  though  of  the  purest  school  of  fiction.  Its  facts  arc 
all  to  be  found  in  the  sober  records  of  a  period,  when,  however 
society  was  not  quite  sober. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

"  O,  the  sacrifice, 

How  ceremonious,  solemn,  and  unearthly, 
It  was  i'  the  offering." —  Winter's  Tal<\ 

THE  ladies  had  retired,  but  midnight  still  found  a  sufficiently 
large  group  gathered  together  on  the  upper  deck.  By  this  time 
others  of  the  party  had  added  themselves  to  the  circle  of  racon 
teurs,  and  from  one  of  these  we  obtained  another  curious  history 
from  the  pages  of  chivalric  times,  and  the  troubadours  of  Pro 
vence.  The  narrator  assured  us  that  it  was  a  veritable  biogra 
phy. 

LOVE'S  LAST  SUPPER; 

A  TRUE  STORY  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS. 
CHAPTER      . 

IN  the  first  conception  of  the  institution  of  chivalry  it  wa§ 
doubtless  a  device  of  great  purity,  and  contemplated  none  but 
highly  proper  and  becoming  purposes.  Those  very  features 
which,  in  our  more  sophisticated  era,  seem  to  have  been  the 
most  absurd,  or  at  least  fantastic,  wore,  perhaps  among  its  best 
securities.  The  sentiment  of  love,  apart  from  its  passion,  is  what 
a  very  earnest  people,  in  a  very  selfish  period,  can  not  so  well 
understand  :  but  it  was  this  very  separation  of  interests,  which 
we  now  hold  to  be  inseparable,  that  constituted  the  peculiarity 
of  chivalry  —  the  fanciful  in  its  characteristics  rendering  senti 
ment  independent  of  passion,  and  refining  the  nude  desire  hy 
the  exercise  and  influence  of  tastes,  which  do  not  usually  accom 
pany  it.  Am<»n«r  the  Provencal  kniirhts  and  troubadours,  in  the 
palmy  days  of  their  progress,  lo\e  wa>  really  the  most  innocent 
and  the  most  elevated  of  sentiments.  It  seems  to  have  been 
nursed  without  guile,  and  was  professed,  even  when  seemingly 


Ginu.u'MK  m:  i  81 

in  conflict  with  the  rights  of  others,  without  tlio  slightest  notion 
of  wrong-doing  or  ofl'ence.  It  did  not  vex  tin-  temper,  or  im 
pair  the  marital  securities  of  the  husband,  that  the  beauties  of 
his  dame  were  sung  with  enthusiasm  by  the  youthful  poet;  on 
the  contrary,  lie  who  gloried  in  the  possession  of  a  jewel,  was 
scarcely  satisfied  with  fortune  unless  she  brought  to  a  just  knowl 
edge  of  its  splendor-,  the  hard  who  alone  could  convey  to  the 
worl  a  similar  sen>e  of  the  value  of  his  treasure.  The  narra 
tive  rt-hich  we  have  gathered  from  the  ancient  chronicles  of 
Pn  sence,  and  which  we  take  occasion  to  say  is  drawn  from  the 
most  veracious  sources  of  history,  will  illustrate  the  correctness 
of  these  particulars. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  instances  of  the  sentiment  of  love, 
v,  armed  into  passion,  yet  without  evil  in  its  objects  is  to  be  found 
in  i  he  true  and  touching  history  of  Guillaume  de  Cabestaign,  a 
ooble  youth  of  Roussillon.  Though  noble  of  birth,  (iuillaume 
was  without  fortune,  and  it  was  not  thought  improper  or  humili 
ating  in  those  days  that  he  should  serve,  as  a  page,  the  knight 
whose  ai  .-.ere  known  to  his  own  as  associates.  It  was 

in  this  capacity  that  he  became  the  retainer  of  Raymond,  lord 
of  Roussillon.  Raymond,  though  a  haughty  baron,  was  one  who 
possessed  certain  generous  tastes  and  sentiments,  and  who 
showed  himself  capable  of  appreciating  the  talents  and  great 
merits  of  Guillaume  de  Cabestaign.  His  endowments,  indeed, 
were  of  a  character  to  find  ready  favor  with  all  parties.  The 
youth  Wiis  not  oidy  graceful  of  carriage,  and  particularly  hand 
some  of  face  ami  per>«ni.  but  he  possessed  graces  of  mind  and 
manner  \\  l.ich  especially  commended  him  to  knightly  sympathy 
and  ad;.iir;»ti,,n.  He  belonged  to  that  class  of  unjn-nrvixatnri  to 
whom  t!  !  Provence  gave  the  name  of  troubadour,  and 

was  quite  as  ready  to  sing  the  praises  of  his  mistress,  as  he  was 
to  mount  honv.  and  charge  with  sword  and  lance  in  her  defence 
and  hor.or.  His  HUIM-,  taking  her  moral  aspect  from  his  own, 
wa«  pure  and  mode.M  in  her  behavior  —  indulging  in  no  song  or 
sentiment  which  would  not  fall  becomingly  on  the  most  virgin 
ear.  His  verges  \\.-ie  distinguished  equally  by  their  del; 
and  fancy,  and  united  to  a  spirit  «•("  the  m«'-t  generous  and  exult 
ing  life,  a  taste  of  tlie  utu..»t  .simplicity  and  purity.  Not  less 
gentle  than  buoyant,  1;  -nee  timid  in  approach,  and  jov- 

4* 


32  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

giving  in  society;  and  while  he  compelled  the  rc«?j«ct  of  men 
by  his  frank  and  fearless  manhood,  l»e  won  the  hearts  of  the 
other  sex  by  those  gentle  graces  which,  always  prompt  and 
ready,  are  never  obtrusive,  and  which  leave  us  only  to  the  just 
appreciation  of  their  value,  when  they  are  withdrawn  from  our 
knowledge  and  enjoyment. 

It  happened,  unfortunately  for  our  troubadour,  that  he  won 
too  many  hearts.  Raised  by  the  lord  of  Roussillon  to  the  rank 
of  gentleman-usher  to  the  Lady  Marguerite,  his  young  and  beau 
tiful  wife,  tb  graces  and  accomplishments  of  Gulllaume  de 
Cabestaigu,  soon  became  quite  as  apparent  and  agreeable  to  her 
as  to  the  meanest  of  the  damsels  in  her  train.  She  was  never 
so  well  satisfied  as  in  his  society  ;  and  her  young  and  ardent 
soul,  repelled  rather  than  solicited  by  the  8tern  nature  of  Ray 
mond,  her  lord,  was  better  prepared  and  pleased  to  sympathize 
with  the  more  beguiling  and  accessible  spirit  of  the.  page.  The 
tenderest  impressions  of  love,  without  her  own  knowledge,  soon 
seized  upon  her  heart ;  and  she  had  learned  to  sigh  as  she  gazed 
upon  the  person  that  she  favored,  long  before  she  entertained 
the  slightest  consciousness  that  he  was  at  all  precious  to  her 
eyes.  He  himself,  dutiful  as  devoted,  for  a  long  season  beheld 
none  of  these  proofs  of  favor  on  the  part  of  his  noble  mistress. 
She  called  him  her  servant,  it  is  true,  and  he,  as  such,  sung  daily 
in  her  praises  the  equal  language  of  the  lover  and  the  knight. 
These  were  words,  however,  of  a  vague  conventional  meaning, 
t<>  which  her  husband  listened  with  indifferent  ear.  In  those 
days  every  noble  lady  entertained  a  lover,  who  was  called  her 
servant.  It  was  a  prerogative  of  nobility  that  such  should  be 
the  case.  It  spoke  for  the  courtliness  and  aristocracy  of  the 
party ;  and  to  be  without  a  lover,  though  in  the  possession  of  a 
husband,  was  to  be  an  object  of  scornful  sympathy  in  the  eyes 
of  the  sex.  Fashion,  in  other  words,  had  taken  the  name  of 
chivalry  ;  and  it  was  one  of  her  regulations  that  the  noble  lady 
should  possess  a  lover,  who  should  of  necessity  be  other  than 
her  lord.  In  this  capacity,  Raymond  of  Roussillon,  found  noth 
ing  of  which  to  complain  in  the  devotion  of  Guillaume  de  Cabes- 
taign  to  Marguerite,  his  wife.  But  the  courtiers  who  gathered 
in  hor  train  were  not  so  indulgent,  or  were  of  keener  sight.  They 
soon  felt  the  preference  which  she  gave,  over  all  others,  to  onr 


FIRST    Sl'KKCH    ()!•'    LOVE.  83 

S-oul'a.!'«ur.  They  felt,  and  they  NMh  i  N-d  it  the  more  readily, 
as  they  were  not  insensible  to  his  personal  superiority,  (iuil- 
lauine  himself,  was  exceeding  slow  in  arriving-  at  a  similar  con 
sciousness.  Touched  with  a  fonder  sentiment  for  his  mistress 
than  was  compatible  with  his  security,  his  modesty  had  never 
suflfered  him  to  suppose  that  lie  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  in 
spire  her  with  a  feeling  such  as  ho  now  know  within  himself. 
It  was  at  a  moment  when  he  least  looked  for  it,  that  he  mado 
the  perilous  discovery.  It  was  in  the  course  nf  a  discussion  upon 
the  various  signs  of  love  —  such  a  discu^;,,n  as  occupied  the  idle 
hours,  and  the  wandering  fancies  of  chivalry  —  that  she  said  to 
him,  somewhat  abruptly  — 

"  Surely  thou,  Guillaume,  thou,  who  canst  sing  of  love  so  ten 
derly,  and  with  go  much  sweetness,  thou,  of  all  persons,  should 
be  the  one  to  distinguish  between  a  feigned  passion  and  a  real 
one.  Methinks  the  eye  of  him  who  loves  truly,  could  most  cer 
tainly  discover,  from  the  eye  of  the  beloved  one,  whether  the 
real  flame  were  yet  burning  in  her  heart." 

And  even  as  she  spoke,  the  glance  of  her  dark  and  lustrous 
eye  settled  upon  his  own  with  such  a  dewy  and  quivering  fire, 
that  his  soul  at  once  became  enlightened  with  her  secret.  The 
troubadour  was  necessarily  an  improrrisatore.  Guillaume  de 
Cabestaign  was  admitted  to  be  one  of  the  most  spontaneous  in 
his  utterance,  of  all  his  order.  His  lyre  took  for  him  the  v-nce 
which  he  muld  not  well  have  used  at  that  overpowering  moment. 
H«  Ming  wildly  and  triumphantly,  inspired  by  his  new  and  rap 
turous  consciouMioss,  even  while  her  eyes  were  yet  fixed  upon 
him.  full  still  of  the  involuntary  declaration  which  made  the  in 
spiration  of  his  song.  These  varies,  which  embodied  the  first 
impulsive  sentiment  which  he  had  ever  dared  to  hivatho  from 
his  heart  of  the  passion  which  had  h>ng  been  lurking  within  it, 
have  been  preserved  lor  us  by  the  damsels  of  Provence.  We 
trail-date  them,  necessarily  to  the  great  detriment  of  their 
melody,  from  the  sweet  South,  where  they  had  birth,  to  our 
harsher  Runic  region.  The  song  of  Guillaume  was  an  apos 
trophe. 

Touch  the  wiping  string ! 

Thou  \vli'.H«-  ln-atity  tire*  me; 
Oh!  how  vuiiiiy  would  I  ting 

Tin-  ('HUMID  thul  inipirrfc  io« 


v  '  SO  Ul  H  WARD    HO! 

This,  dear  heart,  beli 

Were  the  love  I've  given, 
Half  as  warm  for  Heaven  a*  tliee, 

I  were  worthy  heaven  ! 

Ah  !  should  I  lament, 

That,  in  evil  hour, 
Too  much  loving  to  repent 

I  confess  thy  power. 
Too  much  blessed  to  fly, 

Yet,  with  shame  confessing, 
That  I  dread  to  meet  the  eye, 

Where  my  In-art  finds  blessing. 

Such  a  poem  is  beyond  analysis.  It  was  simply  a  gush  of 
enthusiasm  —  the  lyrical  overflow  of  sentiment  and  passion,  such 
as  a  song  should  be  always.  The  reader  will  easily  understand 
that  the  delicacy  of  the  sentiment,  the  epigrammatic  intenseness  of 
the  expression,  is  totally  lost  in  the  difficulty  of  subjugating  our 
more  stubborn  language  to  the  uses  of  the  poet.  A  faint  and  in 
ferior  idea  of  what  was  sung  at  this  moment  of  wild  and  almost 
spasmodical  utterance,  is  all  that  we  design  to  convey. 

The  spot  in  which  this  scene  took  place  was  amid  the  depth 
of  umbrageous  trees,  in  the  beautiful  garden  of  Chateau  Roussil- 
lon.  A  soft  and  persuasive  silence  hung  suspended  in  the  at 
mosphere.  Not  a  leaf  stirred,  not  a  bird  chirrupped  in  the  foliage  ; 
and.  however  passionate  was  the  sentiment  expressed  by  the 
troubadour,  it  scarcely  rose  beyond  a  whisper — harmonizing  in 
the  subdued  utterance,  and  the  sweet  delicacy  of  its  sentiment 
with  the  exquisite  repose  and  languor  of  the  scene.  Carried  be 
yond  herself  by  the  emotions  of  the  moment,  the  feeling  of  Mar 
guerite  became  so  far  irresistible  that  she  stooped  ere  the  song 
of  the  troubadour  had  subsided  from  the  car,  and  nre.-^ed  her 
lips  upon  the  forehead  of  her  kneeling  lover.  He  seized  her 
hand  at  this  moment  and  carried  it  to  his  own  lips,  in  an  equally 
involuntary  impulse.  This  act  awakened  the  noble  lady  to  a 
just  consciou-ness  of  her  weakness.  She  at  once  recoiled  from 
his  gra.sp. 

"Alas!"  she  exclaimed,  with  clasped  hands,  "  what  have  I 
done?" 

"Ah,  lady  !"  was  the  answer  of  the  troubadour,  "it  is  thy 
goodness  which  has  at  length  discovered  how  my  heart  is  de- 


;<>.v 

voted  to  thee.     It  is  thy  truth,  and   thy  nobleness,  dear  lady, 
which  I  love  and  worship." 

•'By  these  ahalt  thou  km>w  me  ever,  Guillaume  of  Cabes- 
taign,"  was  the  response  ;  "  and  yet  I  warn  thee,"  she  continued, 
••  I  warn  and  I  entreat  thee,  dear  servant,  that  thou  approach 
me  not  so  near  again.  Thou  hast  shown  to  me,  and  siirpri>ed 
from  me,  a  mo>t  precious  but  an  unhappy  secret.  Thou  ha>t 
too  deeply  found  thy  way  into  my  heart.  Alas  !  wherefore  ! 
when-fore  !"  and  the  eyes  of  the  amiable  and  virtuous  woman 
were  suffused  with  tears,  as  her  innocent  soul  trembled  under 
the  reproaches  of  her  jealous  conscience.  She  continued  — 

••  1  can  not  help  but  love  thee,  Guillaume  of  Cabestaign.  but 
it  shall  never  I.e  said  that  the  love  of  the  Lady  Marguerite  of 
Rou>sillon  was  ..tber  than  became  the  wife  of  her  lord.  Thou, 
too,  sh  alt  know  me,  by  love  only,  Guillaume;  but  it  shall  be 
such  a  love  as  shall  work  neither  of  us  trespass.  Yet  do  n..t 
thou  cease  to  love  me  as  before,  for,  of  a  truth,  dear  sen-ant, 
me  affections  of  thy  heart  are  needful  to  the  life  of  mine." 

The  voice  of  the  troubadour  was  only  in  his  lyre.  At  all 
»  vcntN  his  leply  has  been  only  preserved  to  us  in  song.  It  was 
in  the  inline^  ol  his  joy  that  he  again  poured  forth  his  melody  :  — 


\Yh.-n-  sjMviids  tin-  pl.'a-mnt  garden, 

blow    tin-  jiri-ri-.u-i  ll. 
My  happy  lot  hath  found  m.- 

Tin-  bud  of  all  tin-  bpl 
H.-.-IM-II  fnimrd  it  \viih  a  lik 

Iti  very  !M>lf  in  *xv»TtnPM, 
\Yhi-ir  Minn-  iTiiwns  tin-  h.'iiuty, 

And  Invi-  •  •  pl.-t.'neM. 

Still  hunihlf  in  |>«issi-«»inns, 

Th;tt  hurnl.l.'  nil  ihiit  pinv,-  her, 
1  ].iv  in  tiif  .-iff'-i-tiiinn, 

That  snHVi  tin-  t"  !<>M-  ii»«r  ; 
And  in  my  joy  I  »ni  i 

And  in  my  t<>:  rs  I  *iin. 
Tin1  1<^<'  li)i»*  «>th«-r*  iiidi-  away, 

Sh<-  *uffcn  nx-  to  bring  hrr. 
Tbii  ritrht  in  ilu«-  my  Imrnoge, 

KIT  wbilo  tii.-v  gjM-uk  her  beauty, 
Ti§  I  alone  tbat  frol  it  wrll, 

And  love  with  prrfVrt  duty. 


86  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

CHAPTER    II. 

IT  does  not  appear  that  love  trespassed  in  this  instance  be 
yond  the  sweet  but  narrow  boundaries  of  sentiment.  The  lov 
ers  met  daily,  as  usual,  secretly  as  well  as  publicly,  and  their 
professions  of  attachment  were  frankly  made  in  the  hearing  of 
the  world ;  but  the  vows  thus  spoken  were  not  articulated  any 
longer  in  that  formal,  conventional  phraseology  and  manner, 
which,  in  fact,  only  mocked  the  passion  which  it  affectedly  pro 
fessed.  It  was  soon  discovered  that  the  songs  of  Guillaume  de 
Cabestaign  were  no  longer  the  frigid  effusions  of  mere  gallantry, 
the  common  stilt  style  of  artifice  and  commonplace.  There  was 
life,  and  blood,  and  a  rare  enthusiasm  in  his  lyrics.  His  song 
was  no  longer  a  thing  of  air,  floating,  as  it  had  done,  on  the 
winglets  of  a  simple  fancy,  but  a  living  and  a  burning  soul,  borne 
upward  and  forward,  by  the  gales  of  an  intense  and  earnest  pas 
sion.  It  was  seen  that  when  the  poet  and  his  noble  mistress 
spoke  together,  the  tones  of  their  voices  mutually  trembled  as 
if  with  a  strange  and  eager  sympathy.  When  they  met,  it  was 
noted  that  their  eyes  seemed  to  dart  at  once  into  each  other, 
with  the  intensity  of  two  wedded  fires,  which  high  walls  would 
vainly  separate,  and  which,  however  sundered,  show  clearly 
that  they  will  overleap  their  bounds,  and  unite  themselves  in 
one  at  last.  Theirs  was  evidently  no  simulated  passion.  It 
wafc  too  certainly  real,  as  well  in  other  eyes  as  their  own.  The 
worlu,  though  ignorant  of  the  mutual  purity  of  their  hearts,  was 
yet  quick  enough  to  discern  what  were  their  real  sentiments. 
Men  saw  the  affections  of  which  they  soon  learned,  naturally 
enough,  to  conjecture  the  worst  only.  The  rage  of  rivals,  the 
jealousy  of  inferiors,  the  spite  of  the  envious,  the  malice  of  the 
wantonly  scandalous,  readily  found  cause  of  evil  where  in  real 
ity  offence  was  none.  To  conceive  the  crime,  was  to  convey 
the  cruel  suspicion,  as  a  certainty,  to  the  mind  of  him  whom  the 
supposed  offence  most  affected.  Busy  tongues  soon  assailed  the 
ears  of  the  lord  of  Roussillor.,  in  relation  to  his  wife.  They 
whispered  him  to  watch  the  lovers  —  to  remark  the  ea^er  inti 
macy  of  their  eyes  —  the  tremulous  sweetness  of  their  voices,  and 
their  subdued  tones  whenever  they  met  —  the  frequency  of  their 
meetings — the  reluctance  with  which  they  separated  j  and  they 


THE   JEALOUS   LORD.  fc< 

dwelt  with  emphasis  upon  the  pointed  and  pas.  ionate  declara 
tion-,  the  intensity  and  ardor  of  the  sentiments  which  now  filled 
the  songs  of  the  troubadour  —  n  very  different  from  what  they 
had  ever  been  before.  In  truth,  the  new  passion  of  Guillaume 
had  wrought  wondrously  in  favor  of  his  music.  He  who  had 
been  only  a  clever  and  dextrous  imitator  of  the  artificial  strains 
of  other  poets,  had  broken  down  all  the  fetters  of  convention, 
and  now  poured  forth  the  most  natural  and  original  poetry  of 
his  own,  greatly  to  the  increase  of  his  reputation  as  a  trouba 
dour. 

Raymond  de  Roussillon  hearkened  to  these  suggestions  in 
silence,  and  with  a  gloomy  heart.  He  loved  his  wife  truly,  as 
far  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  love.  He  was  a  >tem,  harsh 
man,  loud  of  the  chase,  of  the  toils  of  chivalry  rather  than  its 
sports;  was  cold  in  his  own  emotions,  and  with  an  intense  selt- 
iii  that  grew  impatient  under  every  sort  of  rivalry.  It  was 
not  difficult  to  impress  him  with  evil  thoughts,  even  where  he 
had  hestowed  his  confidence  ;  and  to  kindle  his  mind  with  the 
most  terrible  suspicions  of  the  unconsciously  offending  parties. 
Once  aroused,  the  dark,  stern  man,  resolved  to  avenge  his  sup 
posed  wrong  ;  and  hearing  one  day  that  (Juillauine  had  gone  out 
hawking,  and  alone,  he  hastily  put  on  his  armor,  concealing  it 
under  his  courtly  and  silken  vestments,  took  his  weapon,  and 
rode  forth  in  the  direction  which  the  trouhadour  had  taken.  Ho 
overtook  the  latter  after  a  while,  upon  the  edge  of  a  littL-  river 
that  wound  slowly  through  a  wood.  Guillanme  de  Cahe-.taigu 
approached  his  lord  without  any  misgiving;  but  as  he  drew  near, 
a  certain  indefinable  sunn-thing  in  the  face  of  Raymond,  inspired 
a  feeling  of  anxiety  in  his  mind,  and,  possibly,  the  secret  con- 
M-iouHiH'ss  in  his  own  bosom  added  to  his  uneasiness.  H,.  rr». 
membered  that  it  was  not  often  that  great  lords  thus  wandered 
forth  unattended;  and  the  path  which  Raymond  pursued  was 
one  that  (Juillauine  had  taken  because  "fits  nhscurilv,  and  with 
the  desire  to  find  a  solitude  in  which  he  might  brood  securely 
over  his  own  secret  fancies  and  affections.  His  doubts,  thus  awa 
kened,  our  trouhadour  prepared  to  guard  his  speech.  He  boldly 
approached  his  superior,  however,  and  was  the  first  to  bre*k 
silence. 

"  You  here,  my  lord,  and  alone!     How  does  this  chain  e  *'' 


88  SOUTHWARD    HO ! 

"Nay,  Guillaume,"  answered  the  other,  mildly;  "I  heard 
that  you  were  here,  and  hawking,  and  resolved  to  share  your 
amusement.  What  lias  been  your  sport?" 

"Nothing,  iny  lord.  I  have  scarcely  seen  a  single  bird,  an-1 
you  remember  the  proverb  —  'Who  finds  nothing,  takes  no* 
much.' " 

The  artlessness  and  simplicity  of  the  troubadour's  speech  and 
manner,  for  the  first  time,  inspired  some  doubts  in  the  mind  of 
Raymond,  whether  he  could  be  so  guilty  as  his  enemies  had 
reported  him.  His  purpose,  when  he  came  forth  that  morning, 
had  been  to  ride  the  supposed  offender  down,  wherever  he  en 
countered  him,  and  to  thrust  his  boar-spear  through  his  body. 
Such  was  the  summary  justice  of  the  feudal  baron.  Milder 
thoughts  had  suddenly  possessed  him.  If  Raymond  of  Rous- 
sillon  was  a  stern  man,  jealous  of  his  honor,  and  prompt  in  his 
resentment,  he  at  least  desired  to  be  a  just  man  ;  and  a  lurking 
doubt  of  the  motives  of  those  by  whom  the  troubadour  had  been 
slandered,  now  determined  him  to  proceed  more  deliberately  in 
the  work  of  justice.  He  remembered  the  former  confidence 
which  he  had  felt  in  the  fidelity  of  the  page,  and  he  was  not 
insensible  to  the  charm  of  his  society.  Every  sentence  which 
had  been  spoken  since  their  meeting  had  tended  to  make  him 
hesitate  before  he  hurried  to  judgment  in  a  matter  where  it  was 
scarcely  possible  to  repair  the  wrong  which  a  rash  and  hasty 
vengeance  might  commit.  By  this  time,  they  had  entered  the 
wood  together,  and  were  now  concealed  from  all  human  eyes. 
The  Lord  of  Roussillon  alighted  from  his  horse,  and  motioned 
his  companion  to  seat  himself  beside  him  in  the  shade.  When 
both  were  seated,  and  after  a  brief  pause,  Raymond  addressed 
Uie  troubadour  in  the  following  language  :  — 

"Guillaume  de  Cabestaign,"  said  be,  "be  sure  I  came  not 
hither  this  day  to  talk  to  you  of  birds  and  hawking,  but  of  some 
thing  more  serious.  Now,  look  upon  me,  and,  as  a  true  and 
loyal  servant,  see  that  thou  answer  honestly  to  all  that  1  shall 
ask  of  ther.'' 

The  troubadour  was  naturallv  impressed  by  the  stern  sim 
plicity  and  solemnity  of  this  exordium.  He  was  not  unaware 
that,  as  the  knight  had  alighted  from  his  steed,  he  had  done  so 
heavily,  arid  under  the  impediment  of  concealed  armor  His 


THE   JEALOUS   INQUISITIi  >\.  ft9 

doubts  and  anxieties  were  necessarily  increased  l>y  this  dis 
covery,  hut  so  also  was  his  firiiui'---.  He  felt  that  much  de- 
:ed  upi.n  his  coolness  and  address,  and  he  steeled  himself, 
with  all  his  soul,  to  the  trial  which  was  before,  him.  The  recol 
lection  of  Marguerite,  and  of  her  fate  and  reputation  depending 
upon  his  own,  was  the  source  of  no  small  portion  of  his  present 
resolution.  His  reflections  were  instantaneous;  there  was  no 
unreasonable  delay  in  his  answer,  which  was  at  once  manly  and 
circumspect. 

"  I  know  not  what  you  aim  at  or  intend,  my  lord,  but  — 
by  Heaven!  —  I  swear  to  you  that,  if  it  be  proper  for  me  to 
answer  yon  in  that  you  seek,  I  will  keep  nothing  from  your 
knowledge  that  you  desire  to  know!" 

•  Nay,  Guillaume,"  replied  the  knight,  4<  I  will  have  no  con 
ditions.  Yon  shall  reply  honestly,  and  without  reserve,  to  all 
the  questions  I  shall  put  to  you." 

"Let  me  hear  them,  my  lord  —  command  me,  as  you  have 
the  right,"  was  the  reply  of  the  troubadour,  "and  I  will  answer 
you.  \s  ith  my  conscience,  as  far  as  I  can." 

"  I  would  then  know  from  you,"  responded  Raymond,  very 
solemnly,  "  on  your  faith  and  by  your  God,  whether  the  verses 
that  you  mak«-  an-  inspired  by  a  real  passion  ?" 

A  warm  flush  passed  over  the  cheeks  of  the  troubadour ;  the 
pride  nf  the  artist  was  offended  by  the  inquiry.  That  it  should 
be  questioned  whether  he  really  felt  what  he  so  pav?ionately 
declared,  was  a  disparaging  judgment  upon  the  merits  of  his 
song. 

"  Ah  !  my  lord,"  was  the  reply,  expressed  with  some  decree 
of  mortification,  "how  could  I  siuj;  as  I  dty  uidos  1  really  felt 
all  tin*  p:i>-i-»ii  which  I  declare.  In  ^o,,d  >....th.  tlu-n.  I  tell  you. 
love  has  the  entire  possession  of  my  soul. " 

"  And    verily    I     ludievf    thee.  ( iuillaume,"  was   the    subdued 
answer  of  the  hanm  ;    H  I   believe   thee.  my    friend,  tor,  unless  a 
real   passion  was  at  his  heart,  no   troubadour  could 
thou.     But,  something  more  of  thee,  (riiillaume  de  Gabenta' 
Prithee,  now,  declare  to  we  the  name  of  the  lady  whom  thy 
verses  celebrate." 

Then  it  was  that  the  cheek  of  our  troubadour  grew  pale,  and 
hi«  heart  sunk  within  him;  but  the  piercing  eye  of  the  banm 


90  mw.uM)   no! 


was  upon  him.  lie  liml  no  moment  for  hesitation.  To  faltei 
now,  ho  was  well  assured,  was  to  forfeit  love,  lite,  and  every 
thing  that  was  proud  and  precious  in  his  sight.  In  the  moment 
of  exigency  the  troubadour  found  his  answer.  It  was  evasive, 
but  adroitly  conceived  and  expressed. 

"Nay,  iny  lord,  will  it  please  you  to  consider?  I  appeal  to 
your  own  heart  and  honor  —  can  any  one,  without  perfidy,  de 
clare  such  a  secret?  —  reveal  a  thing  that  involves  the  rights 
and  the  reputation  of  another,  and  that  -other  a  lady  of  good 
fame  and  quality  ?  Well  must  you  remember  what  is  said  on 
this  subject  by  the  very  master  of  our  art  —  no  less  a  person 
than  the  excellent  Bernard  de  Ventadonr.  He  should  know  — 
what  says  he  ?" 

The  baron  remained  silent,  while  Guillaume  repeated  the  fol 
lowing  verses  of  the  popular  troubadour,  whose  authority  he 
appealed  to  :  — 

"  The  spy  your  secret  still  would  claim, 
And  asks  to  know  \our  lady's  name  ; 
But  tell  it  ;:ot  fjr  \«-ry  shame  ! 

"  The  loyal  lover  sees  the  snuie, 
And  neither  to  the  wave.-  n.»r  ail- 
Betrays  the  secret  of  his  l.iir. 

"  The  duty  that  to  l.rve  we  owe, 
I.-,  while  tn  her  we  nil  m.iv  show, 
On  cithers  m>thin»  tn  luv.tow.'' 

Though  seemingly  well  adapted  to  his  object,  the  quotation 
of  our  troubadour  was  unfortunate.  There  were  yet  other  verses 
to  this  instructive  ditty,  and  the  Baron  of  Roussillon,  who  had 
listened  very  patiently  as  his  companion  recited  the  preceding, 
soon  proved  himself  to  have  a  memory  for  good  songs,  though 
he  nerer  pretended  to  make  them  himself.  When  (Juillaunu- 
had  fairly  finished,  he  took  up  the  strain  after  a  brief  intro 
duction. 

"  That  is  all  very  right  and  very  proper,  Guillaume,  and   1 
gainsay  not  a  syllable  that    Master   Ho  nan!   hath  written  ;  nay, 
raethinks  my  proper  answer  to  thee  lieth  in  another  of  his  vei 
which  thou  shouldst  not  have,  forgotten  while  reminding  me  of 
its  companions.     I  shall  refresh  thy  memory  with  the  next  that 


THE   LOVER'S   HUSE.  !»1 

follows."     And  without  waiting  for  any  answer,  the  baron  pm- 

ceeded  to  repeat  another  stanza  of  tic  old  p«.em,  in  very  cmlit- 

able  style  and  uiar'.er  for  an  amateur.     This  remark  (iuillaiiino 

de  Cabestciig:i  corM   not  forbear  making  to   himself,  though   he 

was  conscioir    -l  tlie  same  time  that  the  utterance  of  the  baron 

iarly    slow    and    subdued    accents  —  accents    that 

above  a  whisper,  and  which  wen-  timed  as  if  every 

byiJ.ible  were  weighed  and  spelled,  ere  it  was  confided  to  expres 

hi-  .11.     The  verse  was  as  follows  :  — 


••  \N  i>  yii'lil  h«r  naiiii-  to  those 

\\       .  whrii  tin-  sarri'il  truth  i»  shown, 
M;iy  help  t'»  Mi;ikr  tin-  nuiiil  our  own." 

"Now,  methinks,"  continued  the  baron,  "  here  lieth  the  wis 
dom  of  my  qne>t.  Who  better  tlian  myself  can  lielp  to  secure 
thee  thy  desires,  to  promote  thy  passion,  and  gain  for  thee.  the 
favor  of  the  fair?  Tell  me,  then,  I  command  thee,  Guillaume, 
and  I  promise  to  help  thee  with  my  best  efforts  and  advice." 

Here  was  a  dilemma.  The  troubadour  was  foiled  with  his 
own  weapons.  The  quotation  tn»m  his  own  authority  was  con 
elusive  against  him.  The  argument  of  Raymond  was  irresistible. 
Of  his  ability  to  serve  the  young  lover  then-  could  be  no  (jues. 
tion  ;  and  as  little  could  the  latter  doubt  the  readiness  of  that 
friendship  —  assuming  his  pursuit  to  be  a  proper  one  —  to  which 
he  had  been  so  long  indebted  for  favor  and  protection.  He 
could  e\cu>e  himsi-lf  by  DM  fnrthrr  eva-ion  ;  and,  having  admit 
ted  that  he  really  and  deeply  loved,  and  that  his  verses  declared 
a  real  and  living  pas.-i«»u.  it  became  absolutely  necessary  that 
our  troubadour,  unless  he  would  conlirm  the  evident  Mi^picions 
of  his  lord,  should  promptly  find  fur  her  a  :i;unr.  lie  did  so. 
The  emergency  seemed  t»  justify  a  taNeli  .....  I  ;  and,  with  firm 
:its,  (iuillaume  did  n«>t  scruple  to  declare  himself  devoted, 
heart  and  soul,  to  the  beautiful  Lady  Aghos  de  Tarrascon,  the 
S'ster  of  Marguerite,  his  real  mistress.  At  the  pressing  >"licita- 
tion  of  Raymond,  and  in  order  to  render  applicable  to  this  < 
certain  of  his  verses,  he  admitted  himself  to  have  received  t'nun 
this  lady  certain  favoring  smilrs.  upon  which  his  hopes  of  future 
happiness  were  fomiddd.  <  Mir  troubadour  was  }>ersua<l< 
beieet  the  name  of  this  lady.  "Ver  all  others,  for  two  reasons. 
He  believed  that  she  suspected,  or  somewhat  knew  of,  the 


92  SOUTHWARD    Ho  ! 

mutual  flame  which  existed  Lctween  himself  and  her  sister; 
and  he  had  long  been  conflci.ni.9  of  that  benevolence  of  temper 
which  tlie  former  possessed,  an-!  which  he  fondly  thought  would 
prompt  her  in  some  degree  to  sympathize  with  !jim  in  his  neces 
sity,  and  lend  herself  somewhat  to  his  own  and  the  extrication 
of  Marguerite.  After  making  his  confession,  he  concluded  by 
imploring  Raymond  to  approach  his  object  cautiously,  and  by 
no  means  to  peril  his  fortunes  in  the  esteem  of  the  lady  h« 
professed  to  love. 

CHAPTER     III. 

BUT  the  difficulties  of  Guillaume  de  Cabestaign  were  only 
begun.  It  was  not  the  policy  of  Raymond  to  be  satisfied  with 
his  simple  asseverations.  The  suspicions  which  had  been  awa 
kened  in  his  mind  by  the  malignant  suggestions  of  his  courtiers, 
were  too  deeply  and  skilfully  infixed  there,  to  suffer  him  to  be 
soothed  by  the  mere  statement  of  the  supposed  offender,  lie 
required  something  of  a  confirmatory  character  from  the  lips  of 
Lady  Agnes  herself.  Pleased,  nevertheless,  at  what  he  had 
heard,  and  at  the  readiness  and  seeming  frankness  with  which 
the  troubadour  had  finally  yielded  his  secret  to  his  keeping,  he 
eagerly  assured  the  latter  of  his  assistance  in  the  prosecution  of 
his  quest ;  and  he,  who  a  moment  before  had  coolly  contem 
plated  a  deliberate  murder  to  revenge  a  supposed  wrong  to  his 
own  honor,  did  not  now  scruple  to  profess  his  willingness  to  aid 
liis  companion  in  compassing  the  dishonor  of  another.  It  did 
not  matter  much  to  our  sullen  baron  that  the  victim  was  the  sis 
ter  of  his  own  wifd.  The  human  nature  of  Lord  Raymond,  of 
Roussillob,  his  own  dignity  uninjured,  had  but  little  sympathy 
with  his  neighbor's  right*  and  sensibilities.  He  promptly  pro 
posed,  at  that  very  moment,  to  prm-red  on  his  charitable  mis 
sion.  The  castle  of  Tarrascon  was  insight;  and,  pointing  to 
its  turrets  that  rose  loftily  above  the  distant  hills,  the  imperious 
finger  of  Raymond  gave  the  direction  to  our  troubadour,  which 
he  shuddered  to  pursue,  but  did  not  dare  to  decline.  He  now 
began  to  feel  all  the  dangers  and  embarrassments  which  he  was 
about  to  encounter,  and  to  tremble  at  the  distract-  and  ruin 
which  seemed  to  rise,  threatening  and  dead  before  him.  Never 
was  woman  more  virtuous  than  the  lady  Agnes.  Gentle  and 


QUK'K-WTrn  ''    U-ONMX.  93 


beautiful,  like  her  -i-ter  Marguerite,  her  reputation  had  bc0fc 
more  fortunate  in  escaping  wholly  tin1  a>saults  of  tlio  malignant. 
She.  had  always  shrnvn  an  atVectionate  indulgence  f«>r  <>ur  trou- 
h.id"iir,  .-u  id  a  delimited  interest  in  his  various  ftccomplishmxUt*  ; 
and  he  now  remembered  all  her  goodness  and  kindness  onlv  to 
<  r  »•  himself.  in  his  heart,  for  the  treachery  of  which  ke  bad 
joi-t  been  guilty.  His  remorse  at  what  he  had  said  to  Raymond 
was  not  the  leu  deep  and  distressing,  from  the  conviction  that 
he  felt  that  there  had  been  no  other  way  loft  him  of  escape  from 
hi-;  dilemma. 

We  are  bound  to  believe  that  the  eagerness  which  Raymond, 
of  Ivou-nllon,  now  exhibited  was  not  so  much  because  of  a  desire 
to  bring  about  the  dishonor  of  another,  as  to  be  perfectly  satis 
lio.i   that   he   himself  was  free   from   injury.     At  the  castle  of 
Tanas'-on.  the    Lady    A  as  found   alone.     Slie    gave   the 

kindest  reception  to  her  guests  ;  and,  anxious  to  behold  things 
througL  the  medium  of  his  wishes  rather  tlian  his  doubts  and 
tears,  Raymond  fancied  that  there  was  a  pecidiar  sort  of  tender 
ness  in  the  tone  and  spirit  of  the  compliments  which  she  ad- 
div<-ed  to  the  dejected  troubadour.  That  lie  was  disquieted  and 
dejected,  she  was  soon  able  to  discover.  iTis  uneasiness  made 
itself  apparent  before  they  bad  hem  long  together;  and  the 
keen  intelligence  of  the  feminine  mind  \va-  accordingly  very 
!  to  comprehend  tli-  :>quiet,  when. 

drawn  aside  by  Raymond  at  the  earliest  opportunity,  she  found 
herself  cmn>-«:  \aniined  by  the  inijtatient  baron  on  the  nature 
;.nd  olijcet  of  her  own  atVectinnx.  A  glance  of  the  eye  at  Guil- 
launie  de  Ca!  M  she  listened  to  the  iiujiiines  of  the  sus- 

pii  iou>  Raymond,  revealed  to  the  quick-witted  womM*  the  extent 
of  hi>  apju-ehensioiis,  and  possibly  the  danger  of  he.-  sifter.  Her 
readv  instinct,  and  r.jually  prompt  benevolence  of  heart,  at 
once  decided  all  the  answers  of  the  lady. 

"  Why  que-tion  me  of  lovers  .'"  she  replied  to  Raymond,  with 
a  pretty  querulousm-vs  ,,f  t"in-  and  manner;  "certainly  I  have 
lovers  enow  —  as  many  as  1  choose  to  have.  Would  you  that  I 
should  live  unlike  other  women  of  birth  and  quality,  without  my 
servant  to  sing  my  praises,  and  declare  hi>  readiness  to  die  in 
my  behalf?" 

••  Av.    ay.   mv    lady."    answered    the    knight.   ••  Invors    I    well 


94  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

kncr*  you  possess ;  for  of  these  1  trow  tha*  no  lady  of  rank  and 
beauty,  such  as  yours,  can  or  possibly  should  be  without ;  —  but 
is  there  not  one  lover,  over  all,  whom  you  not  only  esteem  for 
his  grace  and  service,  but  for  whom  you  feel  the  tenderest  inter 
est —  to  whom,  in  fact,  you  prefer  the  full  surrender  of  your 
whole  heart,  and,  were  this  possible  or  proper,  of  your  whole 
person  ?" 

For  a  moment  the  gentle  lady  hesitated  in  her  answer.  The 
question  was  one  of  a  kind  to  startle  a  delicate  and  faithful 
spirit.  But,  as  her  eyes  wandered  off  to  the  place  where  the 
troubadour  stood  trembling — as  she  detected  the  pleading  ter 
ror  that  was  apparent  in  his  face  —  her  benevolence  got  the 
better  of  lici  scruples,  and  she  frankly  admitted  that  there  reallv 
was  one  person  in  the  world  for  whom  her  sentiments  were  even 
thus  lively,  and  her  sympathies  thus  warm  and  active. 

"  And  now,  I  beseech  you,  Lady  Agnes,"  urged  the  anxious 
baron,  "  that  you  deal  with  me  like  a  brother  who  will  joy  to 
serve  you,  and  declare  to  me  the  name  of  the  person  whom  you 
so  much  favor." 

"Now,  out  upon  it,  my  lord  of  Roussillon,"  was  the  quick 
and  somewhat  indignant  reply  of  the  lady,  "that  y<m  should 
presume  thus  greatly  upon  the  kindred  that  lies  between  us. 
Women  are  not  to  be  constrained  to  make  such  confession  as 
this.  It  is  their  prerogative  to  be  silent  when  the  safety  of 
their  affections  may  suffer  from  their  speech.  To  urge  them  to 
confess,  in  such  cases,  is  only  to  compel  them  to  speak  unneces 
sary  falsehoods.  And  know  I  not  you  husbands  all  ?  you  have 
but  a  feeling  in  common  ;  and  if  I  reveal  myself  to  you,  it  were 
as  well  that  I  should  go  at  once  and  make  full  confession  to  my 
own  lord." 

"  Nay,  dearest  Lady  Agnes,  have  no  such  doubt  of  my  loyalty. 
I  will  assure  thee  that  what  you  tell  me  never  finds  it  way  to 
the  ear  of  your  lord.  I  pray  thee  do  not  fear  to  make  this  con 
fession  to  me ;  nay,  but  thoti  must,  Apnes,"  exclaimed  the  rude 
baron,  his  voice  rising  more  earnestly,  and  his  manner  becoming 
passionate  and  stern  whin,  he  grasped  her  wrist  firmly  in  his 
convulsive  fingers,  and,  drawing  her  toward  him,  added,  in  the 
subdued  but  intense  tones  of  half-suppressed  passion,  "  I  tell 
,  hidy,  it  bclio OVPS  me  ninch  to  know  this  secret." 


IH   -\ni\«;    AND  NTPnBB,  95 

The  lady  cli.l  not  immediately  yield,  though  tin-  manner  of 
Raymond,  from  this  moment,  determined  her  that  she  would 
do  so.  She  now  conjectured  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case, 
and  felt  the  necessity  of  saving  the  tr<ml>ad»ur  for  the  sake  of 
her  sister.  But  she  played  with  the  excited  ban>n  awhile  longer, 
and,  when  his  passion  grew  so  impatient  as  to  be  almost  beyond 
his  control,  she  admitted,  as  a  most  precious  secret,  confided  to 
bis  keeping  only  that  he  might  serve  her  in  its  gratification,  that 
she  had  a  burning  passion  for  Guillaume  de  Oabestaign,  of  which 
he  himself  was  probably  not  conscious. 

The  invention  of  the  lady  was  as  prompt  and  accurate  as  if 
the  tn»ul>a<lour  had  whispered  at  her  elbow.  Raymond  was 
now  satisfied.  He  was  relieved  of  his  suspicions,  turned  away 
fn.m  the  Lady  of  Tarrascon,  to  embrace  her  supposed  lover,  and 
readily  accepted  an  invitation  from  the  former,  for  himself  and 
companion,  to  remain  that  night  to  supper.  At  that  moment  the 
great  gate  of  the  castle  was  thrown  open,  and  the  Lord  of  Tar 
rascon  made  his  appearance.  He  confirmed  the  invitation  ex 
tended  by  his  wife  ;  and,  as  usual,  gave  a  most  cordial  reception 
to  his  guests.  As  soon  as  an  opportunity  offered,  and  before  the 
hour  of  supper  arrived,  the  Lady  Agnes  contrived  to  withdraw 
her  lord  to  her  own  apartments,  and  there  frankly  revealed  to 
him  all  that  had  taken  place.  He  cordially  g*v«  his  sanction 
to  all  that  she  had  done.  Guillaume  de  Cabestaign  was  much 
more  of  a  favorite  than  his  jealous  master;  and  the  sympathies 
of  the  noble  and  the  virtuous,  in  those  days,  were  always  ac 
corded  to  t  h<  >se  who  professed  a  love  so  innocent  as  —  it  was  justly 
believed  by  this  noble  couple  —  was  that  of  the,  Lady  Marguerite 
and  the  troubadour.  The  harsh  suspicions  of  Raymond  were 
supposed  to  characterize  only  a  coarse  and  brutal  nature,  which, 
in  the  assertion  of  its  unquestionable  rights,  would  abridge  all 
those  freedoms  which  courtliness  and  chivalry  had  established 
for  the  pleasurable  intercourse  of  other  parties. 

A  perfect  understanding  thu>  established  between  the  wife 
and  husband,  in  behalf  of  the  troubadour,  and  in  misleading  the 
baron,  these  several  persons  sat  down  to  supper  in  the  rarest 
good  humor  and  harmony.  Guillaume  de  Cahe^taign  recovered 
all  hLs  confidence,  and  with  it  his  inspiration.  He  made  several 
improvvisations  during  the  evening,  which  delighted  the  com- 


96  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

pany  —  all  in  favor  of  the  Lady  Agnes,  and  glimpsing  faintly  at 
his  attachment  for  her.  These,  unhappily,  have  not  been  pre 
served  to  us.  They  are  said  to  have  been  ><>  made  as  to  corre 
spond  to  the  exigency  of  his  recent  situation ;  the  excellent 
Baron  Raymond  all  the  while  supposing*  that  he  alone  possessed 
the  key  to  their  meaning.  The  Lady  Agnes,  meanwhile,  under 
the  approving  eye  of  her  husband,  was  at  special  pains  to  show 
such  an  interest  in  the  troubadour,  and  such  a  preference  for  his 
comfort,  over  that  of  all  persons  present,  as  contributed  to  con 
firm  all  the  assurances  she  had  given  to  her  brother-in-law  in 
regard  to  her  affections.  The  latter  saw  this  with  perfect  satis 
faction  ;  and  leaving  Guillaume  to  pass  the  night  where  he  was  so 
happily  entertained,  he  hurried  home  to  lloussiilon.  oager  to  re 
veal  to  his  own  wife,  the  intrigue  between  her  lover  ;uid  her  sister 
It  is  quite  possible  that,  if  his  suspicions  of  the  troubadour  were 
quieted,  he  still  entertained  some  with  regard  ,lo  Marguerite.  It 
is  not  improbable  that  a  conviction  that  he  was  giving  pain  at 
every  syllable  he  uttered  entered  into  his  calculations,  and 
prompted  what  he  said.  He  might  be  persuaded  of  the  inno 
cence  of  the  parties,  yet  doubtful  of  their  affections  ;  and  though 
assured  now  that  he  was  mistaken  in  respect  to  the  tendency  of 
those  of  Guillaume,  his  suspicions  were  still  lively  in  regard 
to  those  of  his  wife.  His  present  revelations  might  be  intended 
to  probe  her  to  the  quick,  and  to  gather  from  her  emotions,  at 
his  recital,  in  how  much  she  was  interested  in  the  sympathies  of 
the  troubadour. 

How  far  he  succeeded  in  diving  into  her  secret,  has  not  been 
confided  to  the  chronicler.  It  is  very  certain,  however,  that  he 
succeeded  in  maknii:  Marguerite  very  unhappy.  She  now  en 
tertained  no  doubt,  after  her  husband's  recital.  •»!  Oie  treachery 
of  her  sister,  and  the  infidelity  of  her  lover ;  and  though  she, 
herself  had  permitted  him  no  privilege,  incon**Hlc<nt  v,ith  the 
claims  of  her  lord,  she  was  yet  indignant  that  ho  tltould  have 
proved  unfaithful  to  a  heart  which  he  so  well  knew  k)  be  thor 
oughly  his  own.  The  pure  soul  itself,  entirely  devoted  to  the 
beloved  object,  thus  always  revolts  at  the  consciousness  of  itn 
fall  from  its  purity  and  its  pledges;  and  though  itself  denied  — 
doomed  only  to  a  secret  worship,  to  which  no  altar  may  be  raised, 
and  to  which  there  is  no  offering  but  the  sacrifice  of  constant  pri- 


1M  «  «>\<  H.lAllnv  97 

ration  —  yet  it  greatly  prefers  to  entertain  this  sacred  sense  of 
isolation,  to  any  enjoyment  of  mere  mortal  happiness.  To  f.-.-l 
that  our  affections  are  thus  isolated  in  vain  —  that  we  have  yielded 
them  to  one  who  is  inditYerent  to  the  trust,  and  lives  still  for  hU 
earthly  passions  —  is  to  suffer  from  a  more  than  mortal  depriva 
tion.  Marguerite  of  Roussillon  passed  the  night  in  extreme  ag 
ony  of  mind,  the  misery  of  which  was  greatly  aggravated  hy  the, 
.  in  her  husband's  presence,  of  suppressing  every  feel 
ing  of  uneasiness.  But  her  feelings  conld  not  always  he  sup- 
piv^-ed  ;  and  when,  the  next  day,  on  the  return  of  the  trouba 
dour  from  Tarrascon,  she  encountered  him  in  those  garden  walks 
which  had  heen  made  sacred  to  their  passion  hy  its  first  mutual 
revelation,  the  pang  grew  to  utterance,  which  her  sense  of  dig 
nity  and  propriety  in  vain  endeavored  to  subdue.  Her  eyes 
brightened  indignantly  through  her  tears;  and  she  whose  virtue 
had  withheld  every  gift  of  passion  from  the  being  whom  she  yet 
professed  to  love,  at  once,  but  still  most  tenderly,  reproached 
him  with  his  infidelity. 

"Alas!  (Juillaume,"  she  continued,  after  telling  him  all  that 
sho  had  heard,  "  alas  !  that  my  soul  should  have  so  singled  thine, 
rut  from  all  the  rest,  because  of  its  purity,  and  should  find  thee 
thus,  like  all  the  rest,  incapable  of  a  sweet  and  holy  love  such 
as  thon  didst  promise.  I  had  rather  died,  Guillaume,  a  thou 
sand  deaths,  than  that  tlmu  shouhlst  have  fallen  from  thy  faith 
to  :ne." 

"Hut    I    have   not    fallen  —  1    have    not   faltered   in   my  faith, 

Marguerite!      I  am  still   true   to   thet to  thee  only,  though  I 

tor  thee  vainlv,  and  know  that  tlmu  livest  only  for  another. 
H.-ar  UK  .  Marguerite,  while  I  tell  thee  what  has  truly  hap 
pened.  Thou  hast  heard  something  truly,  but  not  all  the  truth." 

And  he  proceeded  with  the  narrative  to  which  we  have 
already  listened.  He  had  only  to  show  her  what  had  passed 
between  her  lord  and  him^lf,  t"  show  how  great  had  been  his 
emergency.  The  subsequent  events  at  Tarrascon,  only  con 
vinced  her  of  the  quick  intelligence,  an  :  lence  of 
purpose  by  which  her  sister  had  been  governed.  Her  charita 
ble  sympathies  had  seen  and  favored  the  artifice  in  which  lay  the 
safety  equally  of  her  lover  and  herself.  The  revulsion  n(  her 
feelings  from  grief  to  exultation,  spoke  in  a  gush  of  tears,  which 


98  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

relieved  the  distresses  of  her  soul.  The  single  kiss  upon  his 
forehead,  with  which  she  rewarded  the  devotion  cf  the  trouba- 
dour,  inspired  his  fancy.  He  made  the  event  the  subject  of  tho 
sonnet,  which  has  fortunately  been  preserved  to  us ;  — 

MARGUERITE. 

"  That  there  should  be  a  question  whom  I  love, 

As  if.the  world  had  more  thrui  one  so  fair? 

Would1 'tt  know  her  name,  behold  the  letters  rare, 
God-written,  on  the  icing  of  every  dove  ! 
Ask  if  a  blindness  darkens  my  fond  eyes, 

That  I  should  doubt  me  whither  I  should  turn; 
A*k  if  my  soul,  in  cold  abeyance  lies, 

That  I  should  fail  at  sight  of  her  to  bum. 
That  I  should  wander  to  another's  sway, 

Would  speak  a  blindness  worse  than  that  of  sight, 

Since  here,  though  nothing  I  may  ask  of  right, 
Blessings  most  precious  woo  my  heart  to  stay. 

High  my  ambition,  since  at  heaven  it  aims, 

Yet  humble,  since  a  daisy  '*  all  it  claims." 

The  lines  first  italicised  embody  the  name  of  the  l^uly,  by  a 
periphrasis  known  to  the  Provencal  dialect,  and  the  name  of  the 
daisy,  as  used  in  the  closing  line,  is  Marguerite.  The  poem 
is  an  unequivocal  declaration  of  attachment,  obviously  meant  to 
do  away  with  all  adverse  declarations.  To  those  acquainted 
with  the  previous  history,  it  unfolds  another  history  quite  &9 
significant ;  and  to  those  who  knew  nothing  of  the  purity  of  the 
parties,  one  who  made  no  allowance  for  the  exaggerated  manner 
in  which  a  troubadour  would  be  apt  to  declare  the  privileges  he 
had  enjoyed,  it  would  convey  the  idea  of  a  triumph  inconsistent 
with  the  innocence  of  the  lovers,  and  destructive  of  the  rights 
of  the  injured  husband. 

Thus,  full  of  meaning,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  by  what  im 
prudence  of  the  parties,  this  fatal  sonnet  found  its  way  to  the 
hands  of  Raymond  of  Roussillon.  It  is  charged  by  the  biogra 
phers,  in  the  absence  of  other  proofs,  that  the  vanity  of  Margue 
rite,  in  her  moments  of  exultation  —  greater  than  her  passion  — 
proud  of  the  homage  which  she  inspired,  and  confident  in  the  inno 
cence  which  the  world  had  too  slanderously  already  bc^un  to  ques 
tion —  could  not  forbear  the  temptation  of  showing  so  beautiful  a 
testimony  of  the  power  of  her  charms.  But  the  suggestion  lacks 
in  plausibility.  It  is  more  easy  to  conceive  that  the  fond  heart 


THE   TROUBADOUR'S   TABLKT.  99 

of  the  woman  would  not  suffer  her  to  destroy  so  exquisite  a 
tribute,  «nd  tliat  the  jealousy  of  her  lord,  provoked  by  the  arts 
of  envious  rivals,  conducted  him  to  the  place  of  safe-keeping 
where  her  treasure  was  concealed.  At  all  events,  it  fell  into 
his  hands,  and  revived  all  his  suspicions.  In  fact,  it  gave  the 
lie  to  the  artful  story  by  which  he  had  been  lulled  into  confi 
dence,  and  was  thus,  in  a  manner,  conclusive  of  the  utter  guilt 
of  the  lovers.  His  pride  was  outraged  as  well  as  his  honor.  He 
had  been  gulled  by  all  upon  whom  he  had  relied  —  his  wife,  bib 
page,  and  his  sister.  He  no  longer  doubted  Marguerite's  infidel 
ity  and  his  own  disgrace  ;  and,  breathing  nothing  but  vengeance, 
he  yet  succeeded  in  concealing  from  all  persons  the  conviction 
which  he  felt,  of  the  guilt  which  dishonored  him,  and  the  terrible 
vengeance  which  he  meditated  for  its  punishment.  He  was  a  cold 
and  savage  man,  who  could  suppress,  in  most  cases,  the  pangs 
which  he  felt,  and  could  deliberately  restrain  the  passions  which 
yet  occupied  triumphant  place  in  his  heart  and  purpose. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  found  the   occasion  which  he  de 
sired.     The  movements  of  the  troubadour  were  closely  watched, 
and  one  day,  when  he  had  wandered  forth  from  the  castle  seek 
ing  solitude,  as  was  his  frequent  habit,  Raymond  contrived  to 
steal  away  from  observation,  and  to  follow  him  out  into  the  for- 
He  was  successful   in   his   quest.      He   found  Guillaume 
resting  at  the  foot  of  a  shadv   tree,  in  a  secluded  glen,  with 
: ablets  before  him.     The  outlines  of  a  tender  ballad,  ten 
der  but  spiritual,  as  was  the  character  of  all  his  melodies,  were 
already  inscribed  upon  the  paper.     The  poet  was  meditating,  as 
usual,  the  charms  of  that  dangerous  mistress,  whose  beauty  was 
;icd  to  become  his  bane.     Kavinond  threw  himself  upon  the 
pound  beside  him. 

"  Vh  !  well,"  said  he,  as  he  joined   the  troubadour,  "this  love 
of  the  Lady  Agnes  is  still  a  distresMiig  matter  in  thy  thongl 

11  lu  truth,  my  lord,  I  think  of  her  with  the  greatest  love  and 
•ness,"  was  the  reply  of  (iuillaume. 

"  Verily,  thou  dost  well,"  returned  the  baron  ;  "she  deser 
requital  at  thy  hands.     Thou  owest  her  good  service.    And  yet, 
for  ..He  M  bo  .so  greatly  atirctrth  a  lady,  and  who   hath   found  10 
much  favor  in  her  bight,  methinks  thou  seek'fct  her  but  seldom. 
Why  is  this,  Sir  Troubadour  I" 


100  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

Without  waiting  for  the  answer,  Raymond  added,  "  But  lot 
me  see  what  thou  hast  just  written  in  her  praise.  It  is  by  his 
verses  that  we  understand  the  devotion  of  the  troubadour." 

Leaning  over  the  poet  as  he  spoke,  as  if  his  purpose  had  been 
to  possess  himself  of  his  tablets,  he  suddenly  threw  the  whole 
weight  of  his  person  upon  him,  and,  in  the  very  same  moment, 
by  a  quick  movement  of  the  hand,  he  drove  the  coutcau  de 
cJuisse,  with  which  he  was  armed,  and  which  he  had  hitherto 
concealed  behind  him,  with  a  swift,  unerring  stroke  deep  down 
into  the  bosom  of  the  victim.  Never  WHS  blow  better  aimed,  or 
with  more  energy  delivered.  The  moment  of  danger  was  that 
of  death.  The  unfortunate  troubadour  was  conscious  of  the 
weapon  only  when  he  felt  the  steel.  It  was  with  a  playful 
smile  that  Raymond  .struck,  and  so  innocent  was  the  expression 
of  his  face,  even  while  his  arm  was  extended  and  the  weight  of 
his  body  was  pressing  upon  Guillaume,  that  the  only  solicitude 
of  the  latter  had  been  to  conceal  his  tablets.  One  convulsive 
cry,  one  hideous  contortion,  and  Guillaume  de  Cabestaign  was 
no  more.  The  name  of  Marguerite  was  the  only  word  which 
escaped  in  his  dying  shriek.  The  murderer  placed  his  hand 
upon  the  heart  of  the  victim.  It  had  already  ceased  to  beat. 

CHAPTER    IV. 

"Thou  wilt  mock  me  no  more!"  he  muttered  fiercely,  as  he 
half  rose  from  the  body  now  stiffening  fast.  But  his  fierce  ven 
geance  was  by  no  means  completed.  As  if  a  new  suggestion 
had  seized  upon  his  mind,  while  his  hand  rested  upon  the  heart 
of  the  troubadour,  he  suddenly  started  and  tore  away  the  gar 
ments  from  the  unconscious  bosom.  Once  more  he  struck  it 
deeply  with  the  keen  and  heavy  blade.  In  a  few  moments  he 
had  laid  it  open.  Then  he  plunged  his  naked  hand  into  the 
gaping  wound,  and  tore  out  the  still  quivering  heart.  This  he 
wrapped  up  with  care  and  concealed  in  his  garments.  A\  ith  an 
other  stroke  lie  Mii<»t«-  the  head  from  the  body,  and  this  he  also 
concealed,  in  fragments  of  dress  torn  from  the  person  of  his  victim. 
With  these  proofs  of  his  terrible  revenge,  he  made  his  way,  un 
der  cover  of  the  dusk,  in  secret  to  the  castle.  What  remains  to  be 
told  is  still  more  dreadful  —  beyond  belief,  indeed,  were  it  not  that 


THE    l'RECItH:S    MfiATS. 

the  sources  of  our  history  are  wholly  above  discredit  or  denial. 
The  cruel  baron,  ordering  his  cook  into  his  presence,  then  gave 
the  heart  of  the  troubadour  into  his  keeping,  with  instructions  to 
dross  it  richly,  and  after  a  manner  of  dressing  certain  favorite 
portions  of  venison,  of  which  Marguerite  was  known  to  be  par 
ticularly  fond.  The  disli  was  a  subject  of  special  solicitude  with 
her  husband,  lie  himself  superintended  the  preparation,  and 
furnished  the  spices.  That  night,  he  being  her  only  companion 
at  the  feast,  it  was  served  up  to  his  wife,  at  the  usual  time  of 
supper.  lie  had  assiduously  subdued  every  vestige  of  anger, 
unkindnesR,  or  suspicion,  from  his  countenance.  Marguerite  was 
suffered  to  hear  and  see  nothing  which  might  provoke  her  ap 
prehensions  or  arrest  her  appetite.  She  was  more  than  usually 
;e  and  cheerful,  as,  that  day  and  evening,  her  lord  was 
more  than  commonly  indulgent.  He,  too,  could  play  a  part 
when  it  suited  him  to  do  so ;  and,  like  most  men  of  stern  will 
and  great  experience,  could  adapt  his  moods  and  manners  to  that 
livelier  ca>t,  and  more  pliant  temper,  which  better  persuade  the 
feminine  heart  into  confidence  and  pleasure.  He  smiled  upon 
her  now  with  the  most  benevolent  sweetness ;  but  while  he  ear 
nestly  encouraged  her  to  partake  of  the  favorite  repast  which  she 
BO  much  preferred,  he  himself  might  be  seen  to  eat  of  any  other 
dish.  The  wretched  woman,  totally  unsuspicious  of  guile  or  evil, 
undreaming  of  disaster,  and  really  conscious  of  but  little  self- 
reproach,  ate  freely  of  the  precious  meat  which  had  been  placed 
before  her.  The  eyes  of  Raymond  greedily  followed  every 
morsel  which  she  carried  to  her  lips.  She  evidently  enjoyed  the 
food  which  had  been  spiced  for  her  benefit,  and  as  she  continued 
to  draw  upon  it,  he  could  no  longer  forbear  to  unfold  the  exulta 
tion  which  he  felt  at  the  entire  satisfaction  of  his  vengeance. 

"  You  MM  -in  very  much  to  like  your  meats  to-night,  Marguerite. 
Do  yon  find  them  good  ?" 

"Verily,"  she  answered,  ••  this  venison  is  really  delicious." 

•  then,"  lie  continued,  ••  1  have  had  it  dressed  purposely 
for  you.  You  ought  to  like  it.  It  is  a  dish  of  which  you  have 
always  shown  yourself  very  fond." 

"  Nay,  my  lord,  bnt  you  surely  err.     I  can  not  think  that  I 
have  ever  eaten  before  of  anything  so  very  delicious  as  this." 

"  Nay,  nay,  Marguerite,  it  is  you  that  err.     I  know  that  the 


XUS  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

meat  of  which  you  now  partake,  is  one  which  you  have  always 
found  the  sweetest." 

There  was  something  now  in  the  voice  of  the  speaker  that 
made  Marguerite  look  up.  Her  eyes  immediately  met  his  own 
and  the  wolfish  exultation  which  they  betrayed  confounded 
and  made  her  shudder.  She  felt  at  once  terrified  with  a  name 
less  fear.  There  was  a  sudden  sickness  and  sinking  of  her  heart 
She  felt  that  there  was  a  terrible  meaning,  a  dreadful  mystery 
in  his  looks  and  words,  the  solution  of  which  she  shrunk  from 
with  a  vague  but  absorbing  terror.  She  was  too  well  acquainted 
with  the  sinister  expression  of  that  glance.  She  rallied  herself 
to  speak. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  mean,  my  lord  ?  Something  dreadful ! 
What  have  you  done  ?  This  food — " 

"  Ay,  this  food  !  I  can  very  well  understand  that  you  should 
find  it  delicious.  It  is  such  as  you  have  always  loved  a  little 
too  much.  It  is  but  natural  that  you  should  relish,  now  that  it 
is  dead,  that  which  you  so  passionately  enjoyed  while  living. 
Marguerite,  the  meat  of  that  dish  which  you  have  eaten  was 
once  the  heart  of  Guillaume  de  Cabestaign  !" 

The  lips  of  the  wretched  woman  parted  spasmodically.  Her 
jaws  seemed  to  stretch  asunder.  Her  eyes  dilated  in  a  horror 
akin  to  madness.  Her  arms  were  stretched  out  and  forward. 
She  half  rose  from  the  table,  which  she  at  length  seized  upon 
for  her  support. 

"  No  !"  she  exclaimed,  hoarsely,  at  length.  '•  No  !  no  !  It  is 
not  tine.  It  is  not  possible.  I  will  not  —  I  dare  not  believe  it." 

"  You  shall  have  a  witness,  Marguerite  !  You  shall  hear  it 
from  one  whom,  heretofore,  you  have  believed  always,  and  who 
will  find  it  impossible  now  to  lie.  Behold  !  This  is  the  head 
of  him  whose  heart  you  have  eaten  !" 

With  these  dreadful  words,  the  cruel  baron  raised  the  ghastly 
head  of  the  troubadour,  which  he  had  hitherto  concealed  beneath 
the  table,  and  which  he  now  placed  upon  it.  At  this  horrible 
spectacle  the  wretched  woman  sunk  down  in  a  swoon,  from 
which,  however,  she  awakened  but  too  quickly.  The  wan  and 
bloody  aspect  of  her  lover,  the  eyes  glazed  in  death  but  full 
still  of  the  teuderest  expression,  met  her  gaze  as  it  opened  upon 
the  light.  The  savage  lord  who  had  achieved  the  horrid  butch- 


CATASTROPHE.  103 

cry  stood  erect,  and  pointing  at  the  spectacle  of  terror.  Hi* 
scornful  and  demoniac  glance  —  the  horrid  cruelty  of  which  he 
continued  to  boast — her  conscious  innocence  and  that  of  her 
lover  —  her  complete  and  deep  despair — all  conspired  to  arm 
her  boul  with  courage  which  she  had  never  felt  till  now.  In  the 
ruin  of  her  heart  she  had  grown  reckless  of  her  life.  Her  eye 
confronted  the  murderer. 

"Be  it  so!"  she  exclaimed.  "As  I  have  eaten  of  meat  so 
precious,  it  fits  not  that  inferior  food  should  ever  again  pass 
these  lips  !  This  is  the  last  supper  which  I  shall  taste  on  earth  !" 

14  What !  dare  you  thus  shamelessly  avow  to  me  your  passion  ?" 

"  Ay !  as  God  who  beholds  us  knows,  never  did  woman  more 
passionately  and  truly  love  mortal  man,  than  did  Marguerite  of 
Boushillon  the  pure  and  noble  Guillaume  de  Cabestaign.  It  is 
true  /  I  fear  not  to  say  it  now  !  Now,  indeed,  I  am  his  only, 
and  for  ever  !" 

Transported  with  fury  at  what  he  heard,  Raymond  drew  his 
dagger,  and  rushed  to  where  she  stood.  But  she  did  not  await 
his  weapon.  Anticipating  his  wrath,  she  darted  headlong  through 
a  door  which  opened  upon  a  balcony,  over  the  balustrade  of 
which,  with  a  >econd  effort,  she  flung  herself  into  the  court  be 
low.  All  this  was  the  work  of  but  one  impulse  and  of  a  single 
instant.  Raymond  reached  the  balcony  as  the  delicate  frame 
of  the  beautiful  woman  wan  crushed  upon  the  flag-stones  of  the 
court.  Life  had  utterly  departed  when  they  raised  her  from  the 
ground ! 

This  terrible  catastrophe  struck  society  everywhere  with  con 
sternation.  At  a  season,  when  not  only  chivalry,  but  the  church, 
gave  its  most  absolute  sanction  to  the  existence  and  encourage 
ment  of  that  strange  conventional  love  which  we  have  sought  to 
describe,  the  crime  of  Raymond  provoked  a  universal  horror. 
Love,  artificial  and  sentimental  rather  than  passionate,  was  the 
soul  equally  of  military  achievement  and  of  aristocratic  society. 
It  was  then  of  vast  importance,  a>  an  dement  of  power,  in  the 
use  of  religious  enthusiasm.  The  shock  «:iven  to  those  who 
cherished  this  sentiment,  by  this  dreadful  history,  was  felt  to  all 
the  extremities  of  the  social  circle.  The  friends  and  kindred  of 
these  lovers — the  princes  and  princesses  of  the  land  —  noble 
lords,  knights  and  ladies,  all  combined,  as  by  a  common  impulse, 


104  snlTHWARD    HO  ! 

to  denounce  and  to  destroy  the  bloody-mi n ded  criminal.  Al- 
phonso,  king  of  Arragon,  devoted  himself  to  the  work  of  justice. 
Raymond  was  seized  and  cast  into  a  dungeon.  His  castle  was 
razed  to  the  ground,  under  a  public  decree,  which  scarcely  an 
ticipated  the  eager  rage  of  hundreds  who  rushed  to  the  work  of 
demolition.  The  criminal  himself  was  suffered  to  live ;  hut  he 
lived,  either  in  prison  or  in  exile,  with  loss  of  caste  and  society 
and  amidst  universal  detestation  ! 

Very  different  was  the  fate  of  the  lovers  whom  man  could  no 
more  harm  or  separate.  They  were  honored,  under  the  sanc 
tion  of  Alphonso,  with  a  gorgeous  funeral  procession.  They 
were  laid  together,  in  the  same  tomb,  before  the  church  of  Per 
pignan,  and  their  names  and  cruel  history  were  duly  engraven 
upon  the  stone  raised  to  their  memory.  According  to  the  Pro- 
venc,al  historians,  it  was  afterward  a  custom  with  the  knights  of 
Roussillon,  of  Cerdagne,  and  of  Narbonnois,  every  year  to  join 
with  the  noble  dames  and  ladies  of  the  same  places,  in  a  solemn 
service,  in  memory  of  Marguerite  of  Roussillon,  and  William  of 
Cabestaign.  At  the  same  time  came  lovers  of  both  sexes,  on  a 
pilgrimage  to  their  tomb,  where  they  prayed  for  the  repose  of 
their  souls.  The  anniversary  of  this  service  was  instituted  by 
Alphonso.  We  may  add  that  romance  has  more  than  once 
seized  upon  this  tragic  history,  out  of  which  to  weave  her  fic 
tions.  Boccacio  has  found  in  it  the  material  for  one  of  the  stories 
of  the  Decameron,  in  which,  however,  while  perverting  history, 
he  has  done  but  little  to  merit  the  gratulation  of  Art.  He  has 
failed  equally  to  do  justice  to  himself,  and  to  his  melancholy 
subject. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"  Olc  Baginny  nebber  tire." 


WE  are  now  off  the  capes  of  Virginia,  and  you  begin  to  smell 
the  juleps.  When  the  winds  are  fair,  they  impregnate  the  at 
mosphere  —  gratefully  1  must  confess  —  full  forty  miles  at  sea, 
even  as  the  Mi-M*>ippi  gives  its  color  to  the  Gulf,  the  same 
distance  from  the  Balize.  Should  your  vessel  be  becalmed  along 
the  coast,  as  mine  has  been  frequently,  you  will  be  compensated  by 
the  grateful  odor,  morning  and  evening,  as  from  gardens  where 
mint  and  tobacco  grow  together  in  most  intimate  communion. 

The  Virginian  has  always  been  a  good  liver.  He  unites  the 
contradictory  qualities  which  distinguished  the  English  squire 
when  he  drew  sword  for  the  Stuarts.  He  has  been  freed  from 
the  brutal  excesses  which  debased  the  character  of  his  ancestor 
as  described  by  Macaulay  ;  but  he  has  lost  none  of  the  generous 
virtues,  which,  in  the  same  pages,  did  honor  to  the  same  charac 
ter.  He  has  all  the  loyalty  and  faith  of  the  past  —  lie  still  be 
lieves  in  the  antique  charms  of  his  home  and  parish.  He  is 
brave  and  hardy,  though  indolent,  and  has  a  martial  swagger 
peculiarly  his  own,  which  gives  an  easy  grace  to  his  courage 
while  taking  nothing  from  what  is  wholesome  in  his  social  de- 

me;i: 

Ynvinian  is  a  lounger.  He  will  sleep  for  days  and 
hut  only  to  stait  into  the  nmst  energetic  and  performing 
lite.  See  him  as  he  drowses  nt  ease  in  the  shade  of  hi.s  piazza, 
his  legs  over  the  balustrade  ;  observe  him  as  he  dawdles  nt  the 
tavern,  in  a  like  attitude,  with  a  sympathetic  crowd  of  idlers 
around  him.  There  he  aits,  as  you  perceive,  in  a  rirketty  chair, 
of  domestic  fashion,  the  seat  of  which  is  untanned  bull's  hitle  — 
his  head  thrown  back,  his  heels  in  the  air  over  an  empty  barrel, 
a  huge  plantation  cignr  protruded  from  hi*  left  cbeek.  and  a  pint 


106  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

goblet  of  julep,  foaming  amid  green  leaves  and  ice,  beside  him. 
There  he  will  sit,  and  swear  famously,  and  discuss  politics  by 
the  hour,  and  talk  of  his  famous  horses,  orators,  and  warriors  — 
for  he  is  a  good  local  chronicler  always,  and  has  a  wonderful 
memory  of  all  that  has  happened  in  the  "  Old  Dominion."  You 
will,  if  you  know  nothing  of  him,  fancy  him  a  mere  braggart  and 
a  sluggard.  But  wait.  Only  sound  the  trumpet — give  the 
alarm  —  and  he  is  on  his  feet.  If  a  sluggard,  he  is  like  the 
Black  Sluggard  in  Ivanhoe.  He  only  waits  the  proper  provo 
cation.  Like  the  war-horse,  the  blast  of  the  trumpet  puts  his 
whole  frame  in  motion.  He  kicks  the  chair  from  under  him. 
He  rolls  the  barrel  away  with  a  single  lurch.  The  cigar  is  flung 
from  his  jaw  ;  and,  emptying  his  julep,  he  is  prepared  for  action 
—  ready  to  harangue  the  multitude,  or  square  off  against  any 
assailant. 

His  fault  in  war  is  want  of  caution.  He  never  provides 
against  an  enemy  because  he  never  fears  one.  He  is  frequently 
caught  napping,  but  he  makes  up  for  it,  in  the  end,  by  extra  ex 
ertions.  There  is  a  dash  of  Raleigh  and  John  Smith  both  in  his 
character,  as  when  the  "Old  Dominion,"  when  it  had  not  a  gun 
boat  or  a  piece  of  ordnance,  defied  Cromwell,  and  declared  at  all 
hazard  for  the  Stuarts.  His  loyalty  is  as  indisputable  as  his  cour 
age — provided  you  let  him  show  it  as  he  pleases.  He  is  as  self-will 
ed  as  Prince  Rupert,  who,  in  most  respects,  was  no  bad  representa 
tive  of  the  Virginian  ;  —  bold,  headlong,  dashing,  full  of  cournge 
and  effrontery,  fond  of  a  rouse,  and  mixing  fun,  fight  and  devo 
tion,  together,  in  a  rare  combination,  which  does  not  always  of 
fend,  however  it  may  sometimes  startle.  A  proud  fellow,  who 
loves  no  master,  and  who  only  serves  because  it  is  his  humor  to 
do  so. 

He  is  profligate  beyond  his  means.  His  hospitality,  which 
was  once  his  virtue,  is,  like  that  of  some  of  his  neighbors  further 
south,  becoming  a  weakness  and  a  vice.  He  will  not,  however, 
repudiate,  though  his  gorge  rises  at  the  thought  of  bank 
ruptcy.  He  is  to:  much  of  an  individual  for  that  —  has  too 
much  pride  as  a  Virginian.  But,  I  fear  that  his  profligacy  of 
life  has  tainted  the  purity  of  his  politics.  I  could  wish  that  Vir 
ginians  were  less  solicitous  of  the  flesh-pots  of  the  national  gov- 
eruuieut. 


VIRGINIA    rOLIT!  107 

The  mention  of  Virginia  rocalls  one  of  the  most  interesting  of 
our  state  histories.  It  is  the  pride  of  Virginia  to  have,  been  one 
of  the  maternal  states  of  this  country.  She  shares  this  distinction 
with  Massachusetts  and  the  Carolinas.  I  do  not  mean  to  say, 
simply,  that  her  sons  have  contributed  to  form  the  population  of 
•  •rlier  states.  It  is  in  the  formation  of  their  character  that  she 
lias  been  conspicuous.  She  has  given  tone  and  opinion  to  the 
new  communities  that  have  arisen  along  her  frontier.  She  has 
equally  influenced  their  social  habits  and  courage.  It  would  be 
a  pleasant  study,  for  the  social  philosopher,  to  inquire  into  the 
degree  in  which  she  has  done  this.  It  is  enough  that  I  suggest 
the  inquiry." 

'•  What  a  misfortune  to  Virginia  that  she  is  so  near  to  the  Dis 
trict  of  Columbia." 

"And  that  she  has  given  five  presidents  to  the  confederacy." 

"  Yes  !  this  effect  is  to  make  office  a  natural  craving ;  while, 
it  is  thought  that  every  male-child  horn  since  the  days  of  Mon 
roe,  is  bora  with  a  sort  of  natural  instinct  for,  and  a  right  to  the 
-idency." 

"  Yet,  how  curious  now-a-dnys  are  the  materiel  for  a  piesi 
dent!" 

"Curious,  indeed!  yet  this  would  be  no  great  evil  —  this 
change  in  the  sort  of  clay  supposed  essential  for  the  manufac 
ture —  if  states  preserved  their  integrity,  their  principles  and 
pride,  with  their  passion.  But  we  grow  flexible  in  moral  in  pro- 
poitioii  to  our  appetites,  and  one  who  is  constantly  hungering 
will  never  scruple,  at  any  sort  of  food.  The  eagle  descends  to 
the  garbage  of  the  kite,  and  the  race  who  once  wrought  their 
"Ut  of  marble,  soon  content  themselves  with  very  rude  im 
itations  in  putty." 

••'1  i.'-y  iif.-d  not  he  imitations  "ither.  We  have  reached  that 
condition  when  it  is  no  l<mgrr  held  essential,  the  counsel  of  Ham 
let  to  his  mother,  •  assume  a  virtue  if  you  have  it  not.'  It  is  not 
only  no  longer  held  e^s,  ntial  to  keep  up  the  appearances  of 
truth  and  patriotism,  but  one  is  apt  t««  be  laughed  at  for  his 
pains.  Kvrii  to  seem  patriotic  at  Washington  is  held  to  be  a 
gratuitous  greenness." 

••  l.i-t    in  not    sp,.ak  of   it.      How  much  more    grateful  is   it  to 
back  to  the,  rough,  wild,  half  F.ivnere.  1  MT  1  rave  ,ind  honest 


103  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

past.  What  a  pity  it  is  that  our  people  do  not  read  their  own 
old  chronicles.  It  is  now  scarcely  possible  to  pick  up  any  of  the 
old  histories  of  the  states,  which  a  sincere  people,  with  any  ven 
eration  left,  would  be  careful  to  keep  in  every  household." 

"  What  an  equal  pity  it  is  that  these  chronicles  have  been  so 
feebly  exemplified  by  the  local  historians.  These  have  usually 
shown  themselves  to  be  mere  compilers.  They  were,  in  fact,  a 
very  dull  order  of  men  among  us.  They  were  wholly  deficient 
in  imagination  and  art ;  and  quite  incapable  of  developing  grace 
fully,  or  even  of  exhibiting  fairly,  the  contents  of  the  chronicle. 
They  merely  accumulated  or  condensed  the  records ;  they  nev 
er  displayed  them.  This  is  the  great  secret  by  which  histories 
are  preserved  to  the  future  and  kept  popular  through  time.  Art 
is  just  as  necessary  in  truth  as  in  fiction  —  a  fact  of  which  critics 
even  do  not  always  appear  conscious.  See  now  the  wonderful 
success  and  attraction  of  Mr.  Prescott's  labors.  His  secret  con 
sists  chiefly  in  the  exercise  of  the  appropriate  degree  of  art. 
His  materials,  in  the  main,  are  to  be  found  in  a  thousand  old 
volumes,  available  to  other  writers ;  but  it  was  in  his  art  that 
the  lumbersome  records  became  imbued  with  life.  His  narra 
tives  of  the  conquest  of  Peru  and  Mexico  are  so  many  exquisite 
pictures — action,  scene,  portrait,  all  harmoniously  blended  in 
beautiful  and  symmetrical  connection.  His  details,  which,  in 
common  hands,  were  usually  sadly  jumbled,  constitute  a  series 
of  noble  drninas  —  all  wrought  out  in  eloquent  action.  His 
events  are  all  arranged  with  the  happiest  order.  His  dramatis 
jH'rxotrtr  play  their  parts  according  to  the  equal  necessities  of  the 
history  and  of  their  individual  character.  The  parts  harmonize, 
the  persons  work  together,  and  the  necessary  links  ]>re-rr\  »•<! 
between  them,  the  action  is  unbroken  to  the  close.  All  im-le- 
v.-mt  matter,  calculated  to  impair  this  interest,  is  carefully  dis 
carded  ;  all  subordinate  matter  is  dismissed  with  a  proper  l-irv- 
ity,  or  compressed  in  the  form  of  notes,  at  the  bottom  of  his 
page.  Nothing  i«  dwelt  upon  at  length,  but  that  which  justifies 
delineation,  either  from  the  intrinsic  value  of  the  material,  or 
from  its  susceptibilities  for  art.  Suppose  the  historian  were  to 
employ  such  a  rule  in  the  development  of  such  chronicles  as 
those  of  Virginia  ?  What  a  beautiful  volume  might  be  made  of 
it!  How  full  of  admirable  lessons,  of  lovely  sketches,  <>/" 


SMITH    AND    I'nr  urnNTAR.  100 

fine  contrasts  and  spirit-stirring  actions.  Tlie  early  vovn 
down  to  the  time  of  Smith,  would  1'onn  the  subject  of  ft  most 
delightful  chapter;  and  then  we  open  upon  tin-  career  of  Smith 
himself — that  remarkable  man,  excellent  politician,  and  truly 
noble  gentleman  and  soldier.  He  seems  to  have  been  the  la>t 
representative  of  an  age  which  hail  passed  from  sight  before  he. 
entered  upon  the  sta^e.  He  was  the  embodiment  of  the  best 
characteristics  of  chivalry.  How  manly  his  career  —  with  what 
a  r.ohle  self-esteem  did  lie  prepare  for  the  most  trying  issues  — 
how  generous  his  courage — how  disinterested  his  virtues  —  how 
devoted  to  the  sex — a  preux  clu-culicr,  not  unworthy  to  have 
supped  with  Bayard  after  the  battle  of  Marignano.  Neither 
England  nor  America  has  ever  done  justice  to  the  genius  or  the 
performances  of  this  man,  and  I  tear  that  his  name  was  some 
what  in  the  \\.iv  of  his  distinctions.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  in 
the  hcroi>rn  of  a  man  named  Smith.  Men  do  not  doubt  that  he 
will  fight,  but  mere  lighting  is  not  heroism.  Heroism  is  the  model 
virtue;  and  we  an-  sb'W  to  ally  it  with  the  name  of  Smith  —  in 
deed,  with  anv  name  of  a  single  sellable.  There  are  really  few 
or  no  flaws  in  the  character  of  the  founder  of  Virginia." 

"I  am  not  sure  of  that  !  What  do  you  say  to  hi>  treatment 
of  the  beautiful  daughter  of  rowhatan  .'  His  coldness — " 

"You  have  simply  stumbled  in  the  track  of  a  popular  error. 
It  is  a  vulgar  not  inn  that  he  encouraged  and  slighted  the  aflec- 
tions  of  Pocnhontas.  All  this  is  a  mistake.  He  neither  beguiled 
her  with  fal>e  shows  of  love,  nor  was  indifferent  to  her  beauties 
or  her  virtu*  1  ;  men-  child  to  Smith,  but 

twehe  years  old  when  he  first  knew  her,  and  he  about  forty." 

"Hut  his  neglect  of  her  when  she  went  to  K:  -land" 

44  He  did  not  m-glrct  her." 

"  She  reproached  him  for  it." 

MYetJ     the    p. .or    MVftgti    »'i    ber    unsophisticated    chil<; 
knew  nothing   of  that   convention  which,  in  Kuvpe,  ].iy  U   bur- 
densomcly  upon   Smith   as  upon   hei-ell'.      Kven  then.  liou. 
he  treated  her  as  tenderly  a^  it'  she  were  his  own  rhild,  with  this 
difference,  that    he  was   required    to  approach  her  as  a  princqps. 
His   reserves  were  dictated    by  a  prudent    caution  which  did  not 
venture  to  outrage  the  pedantic  prejudices  of  the  Scottish  Solo 
mon,  then  upon  the  throne,  who.  if  you   remember,  was  very 


110  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

slow  to  forgive  Rolfe,  one  of  his  subjects,  for  the  audacity  which 
led  him  to  marry  the  princess  of  Virginia." 

"  By  the  way,  you  have  yourself  made  Smith  an  object  of  tho 
love  of  Pocahontas." 

"  It  was  the  sin  of  my  youth ;  and  was  the  natural  use  to  be 
made  of  the  subject  when  treating  it  in  verse." 

"Come  —  as  one  of  your  contributions  to  our  evening,  give 
us  your  legend.  Miss  Burroughs  will  no  doubt  be  pleased  to 
hear  it,  and  your  verse  may  very  well  serve  as  a  relief  to  our 
prose." 

"What  do  you  say,  Selina?" 

"  Oh  !  by  all  means — the  legend." 

"  To  hear  is  to  obey." 

The  circle  closed  about  me,  and,  with  many  natural  misgivings, 
and  a  hesitation  which  is  my  peculiar  infirmity,  I  delivered  my 
self  as  well  as  I  could  of  the  fabrication  which  follows : — 

POCAHONTAS;  A  LEGEiND  OF  VIRGINIA. 

I. 

LIGHT  was  her  heart  and  sweet  her  smile, 

The  dusky  maid  of  forest-bower, 
Ere  yet  the  stranger's  step  of  guile 

Bore  one  soft  beauty  from  the  flower ; 
The  wild  girl  of  an  Indiiin  vale, 

A  child,  with  all  of  woman's  seeming, 
And  if  her  cheek  be  less  than  pule, 

'Twa*  with  the  life-blood  through  it  streaming. 
Soft  was  the  light  that  fill'd  her  eye, 

And  grace  \viis  in  her  every  motion, 
Her  voice  waa  touching,  like  the  fligh, 

When  passion  first  becomes  devotion  ; — 
And  worship  still  was  hers  —  her  sire 

Beloved  and  fear'd,  a  prince  of  power, 
Whose  simplest  word  or  glance  of  ire 

Still  made  a  thousand  warriors  cower. 
Not  such  her  swny, —  yet  not  the  less, 
B«ranso  it  bettor  pleased  to  bless, 
And  won  its  rule  by  gentleness; 
Among  a  savage  people,  .still 

She  kept  from  tftvage  moods  apart, 
And  thought  of  crime,  nnd  dmum  of  ill 
r  Rv."iv'rt  IIT  "-•]'•  Jen  hrNrf. 


IMF,    KDKKST    MAIDKN.  Ill 

A  milder  tutor  had  been  there, 

And,  midst  wild  scenes  and  wilder  men, 
Her  spirit,  like  her  form,  was  fair, 

And  gracious  was  its  guidance  then. 
Her  sire,  that  fierce  old  forest  king 

Himself  had  ruled  that  she  should  be 
A  meek,  and  ever  gentie  tl:. 

To  clip  his  neck,  to  clasp  hi*  knee; 
To  bring  his  cup  when,  from  the  chase, 

He  came  o'erwearied  with  its  toils; 
To  cheer  him  by  her  girlish  grace, 

To  sooth  him  by  her  sunniest  smiles: — 
They  rear'd  her  thus  a  thing  apart 

From  deed*  thnt  make  the  savage  mirth, 
And  haply  had  she  kept  her  heart 

As  fresh  and  gentle  as  at  birth  ; 
A  Christian  heart,  though  by  it*  creed 

rnt.-uight,  yet,  in  her  native  wild, 
Free  from  all  evil  thought  or  deed, 

A  sweet,  and  fond,  und  tearful  child; 
Scarce  woman  yet,  but  hnply  nigh 

The  unconscious  changes  of  the  hour 
When  jouth  id  sad,  unknowing  why,— 

The  bud  dilating  to  the  flower, 
And  sighing  with  the  expanding  birth 

Of  passionate  hopes,  that,  born  to  bless, 
May  yet,  superior  still  to  earth, 

Make  hiippy  with  their  pure  impress. 
Such,  in  her  riiiidhood,  ere  the  blight 

Of  failinj  fortunes  touch'd  her  race, 
Was  r«><-!ihontus  still, —  a  bright 

And  blessing  form  of  youth  and  grace; — 
Beloved  of  all,  her  father's  pride, 

His  passion,  from  the  rest  •] 
A  love  for  which  he  would  have  died, 

The  verv  life-blood  of  his  heart. 


The  kinc  would  »eek  the  chase  to-day, 

And  mighty  it  tin-  wild  array 

Thnt  gather*  nigh  in  savage  play, — 

A  nation  yields  its  ear; 
A  bison  herd  —  so  goes  the  tale  — 
Is  trampling  down  the  cultured  vale, 
And  none  who  love  the  land  may  fail 

To  father  when  th*v  hear. 


11-  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

He  goes  — the  father  from  his  child. 
To  seek  the  monster  of  the  wild, 
But,  in  his  fond  embraces  caught, 
Ere  yet  he  goes,  he  hears  her  thought  — 
Her  wish  —  the  spotted  fawn  —  the  pmef 
The  pet  most  dear  to  girlhood's  eyes, 
Long  promised,  which  the  chase  denies. 
Stern  is  the  sudden  look  he  darts 

Among  the  assembled  crowd,  as  now 
His  footstep  from  the  threshold  parts, 
And  dark  the  cloud  about  his  brow. 
"  We  hunt  no  timid  deer  to-day, 
And  arm  for  slaughter,  not  for  play  — 
Another  season  for  such  prey, 

My  child,  and  other  prey  for  thee; 
A  captive  from  the  herd  we  seek, 
Would  bring  but  sonow  to  thy  cheek, 
Make  thee  forget  what  pence  is  here, 
Of  bird,  and  bloom,  and  shady  tree, 
And  teach  thine  eyes  the  unknown  teal    — 
No  more .'" 

He  puts  her  from  his  grasp, 
Undoes,  with  gentle  hand,  the  clasp 
She  takes  about  his  neck,  i»nd  then, 
Even  as  he  sees  her  silent  grief, 
He  turns,  that  stern  old  warrior-chief, 
And  takes  her  to  his  arms  again. 
''  It  shall  be  ns  thou  wilt  —  the  fawn, 
Ere  from  the  hills  the  light  is  gone, 
Shall  crouch  beneath  thy  hands." 
How  sweetly  then  she  smiled  —  his  eye 
Once  more  perused  her  tenderly, 
Then,  with  a  smiie,  he  put  her  by, 
And  shouted  to  !>i«  'hands. 

III. 

They  came  .'  —  a  word,  a  look,  is  all  — 

The  thicket  hides  their  wild  array; 
A  thousand  warrior*,  plumed  and  tit!!, 

Well  itrrnM  and  painted  for  the  fniy. 
The  maiden  watch'd  their  march, —  a  doutl 

Rose  in  her  heart,  which,  us  they  went, 
Her  tongue  had  half-way  spoken  out, 

Suspicious  of  their  fell  intent. 
4  A  bison  herd  —  yet  why  the  frown 

Upon  my  father's  brow,  nnd  why 


1HK    \VAli    1'AKTY.  \\.\ 

The  war-lull  on  each  warrior's  crown, 

The  wnr-\vln»op  us  they  galheiM  : 
Th.-y  toll  of  stranger  braves —  a  r 
With  thunder  clad,  and  pule  of  fa.-r, 
And  lightnings  in  their  grnap —  who  dart 

The  bolt  ungeen  with  deadliest  nim  — 

A  midden  shuck,  a  nisli  of  flume  — 
Still  fatal,  to  the  focman's  ho.irt. 
Ah  !   much  I  frar,  with  these  to  fight, 

Our  warriors  seek  the  wood*  to-day; 
And  they  will  hack  return  hy  night 

With  I. in  i  id  tokens  of  the  fray  ;— 
With  captives  duom'd  in  robes  of  lire 

'I'"  M.oth  the  spirits  of  those  who  fell, 
And  glut  the  red  and  raping  ire 

Of  those  \vh«>  hut  avenge  too  well! 
Ah  !   father,  could  my  praver  avail, 

Such  should  not  be  theii   ..port  and  pride  | 
It  were,  methinks,  a  lovelier  tale, 

Of  peace  along  onr  river's  side; 
And  groves  of  plenty,  fiUM  with  song 
Of  hirds  tiiat  crowd,  u  happv  throng 

To  hail  the  happier  thron«s  helow  ; 
That  tend  the  maize-fields  and  pi,. 
The  cLi  the  hiri-Ji  (  unoe, 

And  seek  no  prey  and  have  no  for  ! 

Ah!  not  for  im if  tin  re  should  come 

A  chii-f  to  l.e.u   n, .-  to  his  I, mm 

Let  him  not  hope,  with  bloody  speur, 

To  win  me  to  hi*  heart  and  will  — 
Nor  boH»t-  in  hope  to  pica-,.-  mine  ear, 
Of  victim*  he  has  joy  d  to  kill. 

No!  let  mo  be  a  maiden  still ; 
I  care  not  il   they  mock,  and  »ay 

The  child  oi    l'o\\  i,iit;ui  sits  lone, 
And  lingers  hv  the  publi 

\\  ith  none  t<i  hearken  to  l,«-r  moan  — 
She'll  sit.  nor  sigh,  till  one  appear* 

\\   t,o    tin, Is   1,0  jo\     j,,    1,11,01111    teurg." 

IV. 

Now  §ink«  tlie  day-«l:ir,  a:.. I  the  f-ve 

\N  ith  dun  and  pu 

Sudden  the  dark  u«rciuU.  lh. 

:*  on  wild  rapi.i  ru>h  and  tlii;l,t  ; 
The  muiden  lea\«»  her  f»u«  »t  buwets, 
Where  Ute  *h»  «w\v  Ur  idle  flu«t-ist 


114  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

Chill'd  bv  the  gloom,  but  chill'd  the  rnor* 

As  from  the  distant  wood  she  hears 
A  slHek  of  death,  that,  heard  before, 

Hath  grown  familiar  to  her  ears; 
And  fills  her  soul  with  secret  dread 

Of  many  a  grief  the  young  heart  know§, 
In  loneliness,  by  fancy  fed, 

That  ever  broods  o'er  nameless  woes, 
And  grieves  the  more  nt  that  relief 
Which  finds  another  name  for  grief. 
Too  certain  now  her  cause  of  te;ir, 

That  shout  of  death  awakes  again  ; 
The  cry  which  stuns  her  woman  ear, 

Is  that  of  vengeance  for  the  slain. 
Too  well  she  knows  the  sound  that  speak* 

For  terrors  of  the  mortal  strife; 
The  bitter  yell,  whose  promise  reeks 

With  vengeance  on  the  captive  life. 

"  No  bison  hunt,"  she  cried,  "  but  fight, 
Their  cruel  joy,  their  sad  delight ; 
They  come  with  bloody  hands  to  bring 
Some  captive  to  the  fatal  ring; 
There's  vengeance  to  be  done  to-day 
For  warrior  slaughter' d  in  the  fray ; 
Yet  who  their  foe,  unless  it  be 
The  race  that  comes  beyond  the  sea, 
The  pale,  but  powerful  chiefs  who  bear 

The  lightnings  in  their  grasp,  and  flin/t 
Their  sudden  thunder  through  the  nir, 

With  bolts  that  fly  on  secret  wing  ? 
The  Massawomek  now  no  more 
Brings  down  his  warriors  to  the  shore; 

And  'twus  but  late  the  Mmiacan, 
O'ercome  in  frequent  fight,  gave  o'er, 
And  liow'd  the  knee  to  I'owhatun. 
Scarce  is  gone  three  moons  ago 
Since  they  laid  the  hatchet  low, 
Smoked  the  calumet,  that  pn-w 

To  a  sign  for  evriy  eye, 
And  by  this  the  warriors  knew 
That,  the  Spirit  from  above, 
As  the  light  smoke  floated  high. 
Bless'd  it  with  the  breath  of  love. 
'Tis  the  pale-face,  then,  and  lie. — 
Wild  in  wrath,  and  dread  to  see, — 
Terrible  in  ft>  hi, —  ah  '  mr  '  — 


WAR    COUNCIL    OF    rnWHATAN  11,. 

If  against  my  father's  heart  ' 
He  hath  sped  his  thunder-dart 

V. 

N"w  gather  the  wnrriors  of  Powhatan  nigh, 
A  r<>'-k  is  his  throne, 
His  footstool  11  ston<>; 

Dark  the  cloud  on  his  brow,  keen  the  fin-  in  hi*  eye; 
To  a  ridge  on  hit  forehead,  swells  the  vein  ; — 

His  hand  grasps  the  hntchet,  which  swings  to  and  fro 
As  if  rrady  to  sink  in  the  brain, 

But  seeking  in  vnin  for  the  foe ! 
Thus  the  king  on  the  circle  look*  round, 
With  a  .speech  that  hath  never  a  sound ; 
His  eye  hath  a  tliirst  which  imparts 

What  the  lip  might  but  feebly  essay, 
And  it  speaks  like  an  airow  to  their  hearts, 

A«  ;f  \r-Ming  them  bound  on  the  niey. 
Tti?  brow  of  each  <jhie(  is  hi  sir, 

nidi  u  loftiness  born  of  his  own: 
And  the  king,  like  the  lion  from  his  lair, 

Looks  pri.u.l  on  the  props  of  his  throne. 
His  eagle  tind  his  r;_«-i  .,t«-  there, 

His  vulture,  hi*  cougar,  his  fox, — 

And,  cold  on  the  edge  of  his  rocks, 
The  war-mill*  rings  his  alarum  and  cries, 

"I  strike,  and  my  enemy  dies!" 

Lift*  the  soul  of  the  monarch  to  henr, 

Lifts  the  soul  of  the  monarch  to 
And,  quick  at  his  summons,  the  chieftain*  draw  near, 

And,  shouting  they  sink  on  the  knee, — 

Then  ri.se  and  awnil  his  d. 

VI. 

sing  in  conscious  majesty 
KoliM  nround  his  fiery  • 
As  some  meteor,  hung  on  high, 
Tells  of  fearful  things  to  be, 

In   I!        : 

Which  the  victim  mny  not  (lr>e  — 
It  may  be  to  onr  nlone, 

Of  the  thfiii.tnmi  farms  that  wait, 
At  the  fiiiifMiM.l  of  the  throne' 
''is  lips  for  »peech,  Im* 

:  ra«  speak  lo  human  sense, 
La'  the  , m  'n  -.p-rs  —  T}->r.'  — 


116  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

One  descends,  n  form  of  light, 
As  if  borne  with  downward  flight, 

You  may  hardly  gather  whence , 
Slight,  the  form,  and  with  a  grace 
Caught  from  heaven  its  native  place « 
Bright,  of  eye,  and  with  a  cheek, 
In  its  glowing  ever  meek, 
With  a  mnideu  modesty, 
That  puts  Love,  a  subject,  by; — 
And  such  soft  mid  streaming  tresset, 
That  the  gazer  stops  and  bli 
Having  sudden  dreams  thnl  spell 

Reason  on  her  throne,  and  make 
All  the  subject  thoughts  rebel, 

For  the  simple  fancy's  Kike  ' 

Such  the  vision  now  !     The  ring 
Yields, —  and  lo  !   before  the  king, 
Down  she  sinks  beneath   the  throne 
Where  lie  sits  in  strength  alone, — 
She  upon  a  lowly  stone  ! 
And  her  tresses  settle  down 
Loosely  on  her  shoulders  brown 
Heedless  she,  the  while,  of  aught 
But  the  terror  in  her  thought. 
Eager  in  her  fears,  her  hand 

Rests  upon  his  knee  —  IHT  rye  — 
Gazing  on  the  fierce  command 

Throned  in  his  with  majesty  — 
She  alonr  at  that  dark  hour, 
l):ii.-  .-ipproHfh  the  man  of  power. 

VII. 

Dread  the  pause  that  followed  then 
In  those  ranks  of  sav;ige  men; 
Fuin  would  I'owbalan  d<-<  lure 

Whnt  is  working  in  his  soul ; 
But  the  eye  that  meets  him  there, 
As  the  maiden  upward  looks, 

Spells  him  with  a  sweet  contio. 
Never  long  his  spirit  brooks 

Such  control  —  his  nnpry  rye  — 
Seeks  her  with  reproving  fire, 

And  her  lips,  with  fond  reply, 
.Part  to  calm  the  rising  ire; 
Soft  the  accents,  yet  the  sound 
Strangely  breaks  the  vlenoe  round. 


THE   DARK   SPOT.  117 


VIII. 

"  Is't  thus  fhou  keep'st  thy  word  with  mo? 

I  ae**  not  here  the  spotted  fnwn, 
WhJrh  fhou  didst  promise  me  should  !<<•, 

Kre  daylight  from  the  hills  was  gone, 
A  captive  all  unharmed  caught. 
For  this,  to  wreathe  its  nerk,  I  sought 

The  purple  flower  that  crowns  the  wood,- 
And  gnther'd  from  the  sandv  shore 
The  singing  shell  with  crimson  core, 

A*  it  were  dropp'd  with  innocent  hlood. 
To  thee  I  know  the  task  weir  light 

To  rouse  the  silver-foot  and  tak<-, 
Even  in  its  weeping  mother's  sight. 

The  bleating  captive  from  the  hrake. 
Vet,  here,  no  captive  wails  for  me  ; 

No  trophy  of  thy  skill  and  toil  ; 
Not  even  the  hiiton-heud  I  ^ 

The  youthful  huntei'*  proper  spoil. 
Hul,  in  its  Head — ;ih  \   wherefore  now, — 

My  father!  do  not  check  thy  child  ! 
\Vhy  is  the  dark  spot  on  thy  hrow, 

And  why  thy  aspect  Htern  and  wild  1 
What  may  this  menn  ?   no  hison  ci 

Nor  fiiiling  sport,  not  often  vain, 
Haiti  fixM  llmt  sipn  upon  your  fnre, 

Of  j)assioiuit»>  Jritr  ;md  rnoiial  paii]  ! 
Ah!   no!   rnethinks  tlic  f.-ai  ful  mood 
11  iih  found  its  hirth  in  hostile  hlood  — 
The  war-whoop,  shouti-d  as  ye  went, 
This  told  me  of  your  fell  intent; 
The  deiith-whoop,  erinn  imr, 

Declared,  as  well,  defeat  and  sham.-  .'" 


"  Ay  !"   erieil  the  monnrdi,  "  w«-ll  yr  speak 

MM-  words  upon  mv  (I: 
In  hurtling  eharai-teis  tl. 
For  venpeunre  on  mine  r  ncmy. 
'Ti«  tnie  as  fhoti  hnnf  said,  my  ehild, 
We  mrt  our  loemen  in  thr  wild, 
And  from  the  ronfliYt  henr  away 
Hut  dealh  and  shaun-  to  |.iri\.-  tlir  fciy. 
Vniidy  rn;r  waniors  fought, —  our  »ii--«, 
LI.  6«i  ,„•• 


118  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

The  pale-face  with  hie  thunder-fires, 

His  lightning-shafts,  and  wizard  charm* 
Hath  buffled  strength  and  courage. — We 

May  fold  our  arms  —  the  glorious  race, 
That  from  the  day-god  took  their  birth 

Must  to  the  stranger  yield  the  place, 
Uproot  the  great  ancestral  tree, 

And  fling  their  mantles  down  on  earth. 
Yet  shall  there  be  no  vengeance?      Cries, 
From  earth  demand  the  sacrifice ; 
Souls  of  the  slaughter' d  warriors  stand, 
And  wave  us  with  each  bloody  hand  ; 
Call  for  the  ghost  of  him  who  slew  — 
In  bloody  rites,  a  warrior  true, — 

And  shall  they  call  in  vain  1 
To  smooth  the  path  of  shadows,  Heaven 
A  victim  to  the  doom  hath  given, 
Whose  heart,  with  stroke  asunder  riven, 

Shall  recompense  the  slain  !" 

X. 

While  fury  took  the  place  of  grief, 
Impatient  then  tho  monarch  chief, 
A  btalwart  savage  summon'd  nigh  ; — 

"The  pale-faced  warrior  bring  —  the  brav*» 
Shriek  o'er  the  valley  for  their  slave, — 
I  hear  them  in  the  eagle's  cry, 
The  wolf's  sharp  clamors  —  he  must  die' 
No  coward  he  to  shrink  from  death, 
But,  shouting  in  his  latest  breath, 
Its  pangs  he  will  defy. — 
It  joys  my  soul  at  such  a  fate, 
Which,  though  the  agony  be  great, 

Can  still  exulting  sing, — 
Of  braves,  the  victims  to  his  brand, 
Whose  crowding  ghosts  about  him  stand, 
To  bear  him  to  the  spirit-land 
On  swift  and  subject  wing  !" 


The  block  is  prepared, 

The  weapon  is  bared, 
And  the  warriors  are  nigh  with  their  tomahawks  rear'ci ; 

The  prisoner  they  bring 

In  the  midst  of  the  ling, 
And  the  king  bids  tho  circle  axound  bim  be  cfcar'd. 


THK    VICTIM    AT  THE   STAKE.  119 

The  wrath  on  his  brow  at  the  sight 

Of  the  prisoner  they  bring  to  his  doom. 
Now  kindles  his  eye  with  a  lordly  delight, 

As  the  lightiiinp-flitsh  kindles  the  gloom. 

He  rise*,  he  *\\ny«,  with  a  hrrath, 

And  hush'd  grows  the  clamor  of  death ; 

Falls  the  weapon  that  groan'd  with  the  thirst 

T<»  drink  from  the  fountain  accurst; 

Stills  the  murnnur  that  spoke  for  the  hate 

Thut  chafed  but  to  wait  upon  fate. 

XII. 

How  trembled  then  the  maid,  an  rose 

That  captive  warrior  calm  nnd  stern, 
Thus  girded  by  tin-  wolli^h  tors 

His  fearless  spirit  still  would  spurn  ; 

How  bright  his  glance,  how  fair  his  fnce, 

And  with  what  proud  nnd  liberal  grace 
Hi*  footsteps  five  advance,  as  still 

He  follows  firm  the  bloody  nuMW 

Thiil  guided  to  ihe  gloomy  ; 
Where  stood  the  savage  net  to  kill! 
How  fills  her  soul  with  dread  dismay, 

Beholding  in  his  form  and  air 
How  noble  in  the  unwonted  prey 

Thus  yielded  to  the  deathsmnn  there! 
Still  fearless,  though  in  foreign  land, 
No  \\o:ipon  in  his  fettered  hand, 
(iiit  by  a  dark  and  hostile  bund 

That  never  knew  to  s| 
Hi*  limb",  but  not  his  spirit  bound, 
How  looks  the  god-like  stranger  round  ! 
An  heetil- --  of  the  doom,  a*  when, 
In  sight  of  thirty  thousand  men, 
HP  stood  by  Regnll's  walls,  and  slew 
The  brnvest  of  her  chiefs  that  came 

II  |  '•••-!  in  beauty's  sight  to  do, 

•  Kin-  honor,  finding  shame! 
As  little  moved  I  Y  I": i to  and  fear, 

As  when,  in  fair  Chnratzn's  smile 
Exulting,  he  was  doorn'd  to  bear 

The  Tartar's  blows  and  bondage  vile  ;— 

And  flow  him  in  hid  ronnluto  mood, 

Tbotlgll  Tenor's  worst  besMe  him  »tood, 
And  nil  her  slouthhoiinds  follow 'd  fust. 

Death,  hunger.  h«t»*.  n  venomeii*  brood, 


120  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

Where'er  his  flying  footsteps  past.* 
Not  now  to  shrink,  though,  in  hit  eyes, 

Their  eager  hands,  at  last,  elate, 
Have  track'd  him  where  the  bloodstone  lie* 

And  mock  him  with  the  shaft  of  fate ! 
With  courage  full  as  great  as  theirs, 
He  keeps  a  soul  that  laughs  at  fears; 
Too  proud  for  grief,  too  hnive  for  tears, 
Their  tortures  still  he  mocks,  and  boasts 
His  own  great  deeds,  the  crowding  hosts, 
That  witness'd,  and  the  shrieking  ghoslt 

His  violent  urm  set  free  ; 
And,  while  his  heart  dilates  in  thought 
Of  glorious  deeds  in  hinds  remote, 

The  pride  of  Europe's  chivalry, 
It  seem'd  to  those  who  gazed,  that  still 
The  passion  of  triumph  seem'd  to  till, 
While  nerving  with  a  deathless  will, 

The  exulting  champion's  heart! 
Half  trembled  then  the  savage  foe, 
Lest  sudden,  from  the  unseen  bow, 
He  mill  might  send  the  fatal  blow, 

He  still  might  wing  the  dart. 
But  soon — as  o'er  the  captive's  soul, 
Some  tender  memories  scem'd  to  roll, 
Like  billowy  clouds  that  charged  with  stream*, 
Soon  hide  in  saddest  gloom  the  gleam* 
Of  the  imperial  sun,  and  hush, 
In  grief,  the  day's  dilating  flush 
Of  glory  and  pride, —  the  triumph  fell  — 
The  soul  obey'd  the  sudden  spell!  — 
A  dream  of  love  thai,  kindled  far, 
In  youth,  beneath  the  eastern  star, 
Is  pulsing  from  his  hope,  to  be 
The  last  best  light  of  memory. 
Soft  grew  the  fire  within  his  eyes, 
One  trni  the  wanior's  strength  defies, — 
His  soul  a  moment  fallen —  then, 

As  if  the  pliancy  were  shame, 

Dishonoring  all  his  ancient  fame, 
He  stood  !  —  the  inasler-man  of  men  ! 

XIII. 

That  moment's  sign  of  weakness  broke 

The  spell  that  still'd  the  crowd  !     The  chief, 

*  S«e  the  Life  of  Captain  Jobn  SrnitL,  the  fgunder  gf  Virginia;  lit  wju.lrov* 
fcujoug  the  T»rka,  &.c. 


AT   THE  STAKE  121 

With  mockery  in  hi*  accent  spoko — 

For  still  the  savage  mocks  nt  grief — 
"No  more!   why  should  th'  impatient  death 
Forbear,  till  with  the  woman'*  breath, 
Her  trembling  fear,  her  yearning-  sigh 

For  life  hut  vainly  kept  with  shame, 

Hi-  wrongs  hi*  own  and  people's  name!  — 
I  would  not  have  the  warrior  die, 
Nor  to  the  last,  with  hiittlp  rry, 
tine,  shout  his  fiime  ! 
:.iin  the  crime  of  tear*   that  flow, 
A  sign  of  suff'-ring  none  should  know 
Hut  him  who  flings  aside  the  how, 

Atnl  shrinks  the  brand  to  hear, 
Let  not  our  sons  the  weaknes- 
1.      '   tVom  the  foe  in  .shame  tl»ey  flfi-, 
And  by  thi-ir  souls  no  lone»'i    ' 

Grow  raptive  to  tlieir  f»-Hr: 
For  him!  —  I  pity  while  I  -scorn 
The  tribe  in  which  the  \vr«-ich  wits  born  ; 

And,  as  I  paze  mound. 
I  plnd  me  that  mine  ae«-d  eye 
Sees  none  of  ull  who  gather  nifh, 
Who  drendj!  to  lu-ar  llu-  wru-whoop'*  sound, 

Not  one  who  fears  to  die!" 

XIV. 

They  ca*t  the  prisoner  to  the  ground. 

With  c\ves  fnim  neighboring,  vine*  they  bound. 

Hin  brow  upon  the  ancient  look 

They  laid  with  wild  and  hitter  mock, 

Thnt  joy'd  to  mark  the  deep  despair 

That  moment  in  tin-  prisonefs  r\e, 
As  sudden,  swung  aloft   in  uir, 

H<    «fi  •<  the  hloodv  mace   on  high  ! 
But  not  for  him  to  plead  in  fear  — 
No  sipn  of  pity  comes  to  cheer, 
And,  witii  on<-  ph. nt  unwhisper'd  prayer, 

I  !••  yii-hU  him  up  to  die. 
Keen  are  the  eyes  that  wntrh  the  blow, 
Impatient  till  the  blood  shall  flow, 
A  thousand  hearts  that  gloating  glow, 

In  enter  cilence  hush'd  : 
The  arm  that  wields  the  mace  is  bending, 
The  instiuni'-iM  o|    death  descending,— 
A  moment,  HIM!  die  m<>ihil  tinks. 

6 


A  moment,  and  the  spirit  soar*, 
The  earth  his  purring  life-blood  drinks, 

The  spirit  tlies  to  foreign  shores: 
A  moment  !  —  and  the  maiden  rush'd 
From  the  low  stone  where  still  affrighted, 

Scarce  dreaming  what  she  sees  is  true  — 
With  vision  dim,  with  thoughts  benighted. 

She  sate  ;is  doom'd  for  slaughter  too;  — 
And  stay'd  the  stroke  in  its  descent, 
While  on  her  childish  knee  she  bent, 
Flings  one  iirm  o'er  the  captive's  brow. 

Above  his  forehead  lifts  her  own, 
Then  turns  —  with  eye  grown  tearless  now, 

But  full  of  speech  — as  eye  alone 
Cnn  speak  to  eye  and  heart  in  p'-ayer— 

For  mercy  to  her  father's  throne  ! 
Ah  !  can  she  hope  for  gjercy  there  7 

XV. 

And  what  of  him  that  savage  wire? 

Oh!  surely,  not  in  vain  she  turn* 
To  where  his  glance  of  mortal  ire, 

In  Hrid  lipht  of  anger  hums. 
A  moment  leaps  he  to  his  feet, 

When  first  her  sudden  form  is  seen, 
Across  the  circle  darting  fleet, 

The  captive  from  the  stroke  to  screen. 
Above  his  head,  with  furious  whirl, 

The  hatchet  gleams  in  act  to  fly;— 
But,  as  he  sees  the  kneeling  girl, 

The  pleading  glances  of  her  eye.— 
The  angel  spirit  of  mercy  waves 

The  evil  spirit  of  wnith  away, 
And  all  accord «.  err  yet  she  craves 

Of  that  her  eye  alone  can  pray. 
Strange  is  the  weakness  horn  of  love, 

That  melts  the  iron  of  hi*  soul, 
And  lifts  him  momently  above 

His  passions  and  their  dark  control  ; 
And  he  who  pity  ne'er  had  shown 

To  captive  of  his  bow  and  spear, 
By  one  strong  sudden  sense  has  grown 

To  feel  that  pity  mny  be  dear 
As  venge.-ince  to  the  henrt, —  when  still 

Love  keeps  one  lurking-place,  and  grows, 
Thus  prompted  by  a  woman's  will, 

Triumphant  o'er  n  thourmd  foen. 


LOVK'S    TKIl'MPH.  123 

Twas  HS  if  •ml Jen,  tourh'd  by  Heaven, 
The  »eal  that  ki-pl  tin-  rock  was  riven; 
As  if  the  waters  slumbering  deep, 

Evon  from  the  very  birth  of  light, 
Smote  by  its  smile,  hnd  leurn'd  to  leap, 

R.-joii-inp  to  their  Maker's  sight. 

How  could  that  stern  old  king  deny 
The  an^el  jik-adiiig  in  her  eye? — 
How  mock  the  sweet  imploring  grace, 
That  breathed  in  beauty  from  her  face, 
And  to  her  kneeling  action  gave 

A  power  to  soothe,  and  still  subdue, 
Until,  though  humble  as  the  slave. 

To  more  than  queenly  sway  she  grew  t 

Oh  !  brief  the  doubt, — O  !  short  the  strife  T 

She  wins  the  captive's  forfeit  life. 

She  break*  hi*  bands  —  she  bids  him  go, 

Her  idol,  but  her  country's  foe; 

And  dreams  not,  in  that  parting  hour, 

The  gyves  that  from  hi*  limbs  she  teait, 
Are  light  in  weight,  und  frail  in  power, 

To  those  that  round  her  heart  she  wears. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

Nest  egg  of  the  Old  Dominion. 

WITH  joined  hands,  Smith  and  Pocahontas  conduct  you  natu 
rally  to  Jamestown,  that  abandoned  nest  of  the  Sire  of  Eagles. 
James  river  is  one  of  the  classic  regions  of  the  country.  We 
should  all  of  us,  once  in  a  life,  at  least,  make  it  the  object  of  a 
pilgrimage !  It  is  full  of  associations,  to  say  nothing  of  it  as  a 
fine  spacious  stream,  which,  when  a  better  spirit  and  knowledge 
of  farming  shall  prevail  and  a  denser  population  shall  inhabit  its 
borders,  will  become  a  channel  of  great  wealth,  and  present  a 
throng  of  quiet  beauties  to  the  eye  wherever  its  currents  wander. 

"  But  the  imputation  of  a  sickly  climate  rests  upon  James 
river." 

"  This  is  due  wholly  to  the  sparseness  of  the  settlements,  the 
lack  of  drainage,  the  want  of  proper  openings  in  the  woods  for 
the  progress  of  the  winds,  and  to  the  presence  of  a  cumbrous  and 
always  rotting  undergrowth.  Population  will  cure  all  this.  It 
is  doing  it  already.  The  farming  settlements  are  improving,  and 
the  health  of  the  river  is  said  to  be  improving  along  with  them. 
You  will  have  pointed  out  to  you,  along  the  route,  a  number  of 
well-cultivated  plantations,  some  containing  four  or  five  thousand 
acres,  which  are  represented  as  being  among  the  best  man 
aged  and  most  profitable  in  the  state.  With  the  substitution  of 
farming  for  staple  culture,  this  progress  would  be  rapid." 

"But  the  genius  of  the  Southron,  particularly  the  Virginian, 
has  always  inclined  more  to  extensive  than  to  careful  cultivation. 
His  aims  were  always  magnificent.  He  must  have  large  estates. 
He  can  not  bear  to  be  crowded.  Like  his  cattle,  he  must  get  all 
the  range  he  can ;  and,  in  the  extent  of  his  territory,  he  neg 
lects  its  improvement.  Indeed,  his  force  —  that  is,  his  labor— 
was  never  equal  to  his  estates.  The  New  York  farmers  have 


JAMESTOWN.  126 

been  fanning  upon  hit*  waste  domains.  Their  policy  differs  from 
his  in  i.ne  essential  particular.  They  concentrate  the  energies 
\\lm-li  he  ilitVuses.  They  require  but  small  territory,  and  they 
make  the  most  of  it.  Lands  which,  in  the  hands  of  the  Virgin 
ian,  were  no  longer  profitable  for  tobacco,  the  New-Yorkers  have 
limed  t«>r  uheat  ;  and  what  he  sold  at  a  dollar  per  acre,  in  many 
instances  will  now  command  seventy-five  dollars.  The  character 
of  the  Southron  is  bold  and  adventurous.  This  leads  him  to 
prefer  the  wandering  to  the  stationary  life.  He  needs  excite 
ment,  and  prefers  the  varieties  and  the  vicissitudes  of  the  forest, 
to  the  tame  drudgery  of  the  farmstead.  His  mission  is  that  of 
a  pioneer.  The  same  farmer  who  now  makes  his  old  fields  flour 
ish  in  grain,  thirty  bushels  to  the  acre,  would  never  have  set  foot 
in  the  country,  until  the  brave  Virginian  had  cleared  it  of  its 
savage  inhabitants,  the  wild  beast,  and  the  red  man." 

"  James  river  conducts  you  to  Jamestown.     Jamestown  and 

\ugustine  are  among  the  oldest  landmarks  of  civilization  in 
Anglo-Norman  America.  You  approach  both,  if  properly  minded, 
with  becoming  veneration.  The  site  of  Jamestown  is  an  island, 
connected  by  a  bridge  with  the  main.  The  spot  is  rather  a  pleas 
ing  than  an  imposing  one.  It  was  chosen  evidently  with  regard 
to  two  objects,  .security  from  invasion  by  the  sea,  and  yet  an 
easy  communication  with  it  when  desirable.  Here,  squat  and 
hidden  like  a  sea-fowl  about  to  lay  her  eggs,  the  colony  escaped 
the  vigilant  eyes  and  ferocious  pursuit  of  the  hungry  Spaniard." 

••  What  a  commentary  up«>n  the  instability  of  national  power 
is  the  fact,  that,  at  this  day,  this  power  has  no  longer  the  capa 
city  to  harm.  In  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  the  Spaniard  was  the 
world's  g  i  Shark.  Now,  he  is-  little  better  than  a  skip- 

j  u  k   in   the   maw  of  that  Behemoth  of  the  nations,  whose   sea- 

ah  he  ceitainly  did  something  to  retard.  In  the  time  of 
Roundhead  authority,  the  Dutch  were  a  sort  of  corpulent  sword- 
fish  of  the  sea;  now  y«>u  may  hetter  liken  them  to  the  great 
lazy  turtle,  fat  and  feeble,  whom  morn  adroit  adventurers  turn 
upon  their  backs  to  be  gratia  re«l  up  at  leisure.  Both  of  tbete 
nations  may  find  their  revenues,  and  recover  position  in  ether 
days,  when  the  powers  by  which  they  were  overcome  shall  fall 
into  their  errors,  and  contrive,  through  sheer  blindness,  their  own 
emasculation." 


126  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"Did  you  ever  read  'Purchas,  his  Pilgrims?'  He  has  a  de 
scription  of  Jamestown  in  1610,  written  by  William  Strachey. 
If  you  are  curious  to  see  it,  I  have  it  in  my  berth,  and  marked 
the  passage  only  this  morning." 

Some  curiosity  being  expressed,  the  book  was  brought,  and 
the  extract  read.  It  may  possibly  interest  others,  in  this  con 
nection,  to  see  where  the  first  tree  was  hewn  in  the  New  World 
by  the  hands  of  the  Anglo-Norman. 

"A  low  levell  of  ground  about  halfe  an  acre,  or-(so  much  as 
Queene  Dido  might  buy  of  King  Hyarbas,  which  she  compassed 
about  with  the  thongs  cut  out  of  one  bull's,  and  therein  built  her 
castle  of  Byrsa)  on  the  North  side  of  the  river  is  cast  almost  into 
the  forine  of  a  triangle,  and  so  pallazadoed.  The  South  side 
next  the  river  (howbeit  extended  in  a  line,  or  curtaine  six  score 
foote  more  in  lengthe,  than  the  other  two  by  reason  of  the  ad 
vantages  of  the  ground  doth  so  require),  contains  one  hundred 
and  forty  yards :  the  West  and  East  side  a  hundred  only.  At 
every  angle  or  corner,  where  the  lines  meet,  a  bulwarke  or 
watchtower  is  raised,  and  in  each  bul warke  a  piece  of  ordnance 
or  two  well  mounted.  To  every  side,  a  proportionate  distance 
from  the  pallisado,  is  a  settled  streetc  of  houses,  that  runs  along, 
so  as  each  line  of  the  angle  hath  his  streete.  In  the  midst  is  a 
market  place,  a  storehouse  and  a  carps  du  garde,  as  likewise  a 
pretty  chappelle,  though  (at  this  time  when  we  came  in)  as  min 
ed  and  unfrequented:  but  the  Lord,  Governor  and  Captaine 
General! ,  hath  given  order  for  the  repairing  of  it,  and  at  this  in 
stant  many  hands  are  about  it.  It  is  in  lengthe  three-score 
foote,  in  breadth  twenty-four,  and  shall  have  a  chancell  in  it  of 
cedar,  and  a  communion  table  of  the  blacke  walnut  —  and  all  the 
pews  of  cedar,  with  fair  broad  windows,  to  shut  and  open,  as  the 
weather  shall  occasion :  a  pulpit  of  the  same  wood,  with  a  font 
hewn  hollow  like  a  canoa ;  with  two  bells  at  the  West  en$.  It 
is  so  cast  as  it  be  very  light  within,  and  the  Lord  Governor  and 
Captaine  Generall  doth  cause  it  to  be  passing  sweete  and  trim 
med  up  with  divers  flowers ;  —  with  a  sexton  belonging  to  it." 

"So  much  for  the  Church  —  the  first  English  Church,  be  it 
remembered,  ever  raised  in  America.  This  should  render  the 
description  an  interesting  one.  And  now  something  for  the  uses 
to  which  it  was  put.  We  see  that  Strachey  found  it  in  a  ruinous 


KARI.V   DKVOTION   OP    VIRGINIA.  127 

condition.  This  was  in  1610.  You  are  not  to  suppose  that  the 
ruin  of  the  church  arose  from  the  neglect  of  the  worshippers. 
It  was  rather  the  result  of  the  more  pressing  ini>f<irtunes  of  the 
colonist?.  Smith  was  superseded  by  Lord  Delaware  in  1609,  who 
brought  with  him  a  host  of  profligate  adventurers,  some  of  whom 
Smith  had  sent  out  of  the  colony,  tied  neck  and  heels,  as  crimi 
nals.  It  was  an  evil  augury  to  him  and  to  the  colony  that  they 
I  brought  back.  They  brought  with  them  faction,  confusion, 
and  misery.  Insurrection  followed  —  the  Indians  revolted  and 
commenced  the  work  of  indiscriminate  massacre,  and  the  church 
and  religion  necessarily  suffered  all  the  disasters  which  had  be 
fallen  society.  But,  with  the  restoration  of  the.  church  under 
Delaware,  let  us  see  what  followed.  ( )ur  Puritans  make  a  great 
outcry  about  their  devotions.  They  are  perpetually  raising  their 
rams'  home,  perhaps  quite  as  much  in  the  hope  of  bringing  down 
the  walls  of  their  neighbors,  as  with  the  passion  of  religion. 
(  hir  Virginia  colonists  boast  very  little  of  what  they  did  in  the 
way  of  devotion.  Let  us  hear  Strachey  still  further  on  this 
subject : — 

•"  Kverv  Sunday  we  have  sermons  twice  a  day,  and  every 
Thursday  a  sermon  —  having  two  preachers  which  take  their 
wekely  turnes  —  and  every  morning  at  the  ringing  of  a  bell, 
about  ten  of  the  clocke,  each  man  addresseth  himself  to  prayers, 
and  so,  at  four  of  the  clocke  before  sniper.' 

"  Verily,  but  few  of  the,  '  guid  folk'  of  Virginia  or  Xew  Eng 
land  are  so  tVerjuent  now-a-days  at  their  religious  exercises! 
The  mithorities  of  Virginia  set  the  example  :  — 

"•  I  udav,  when  the  Lord  (Jovernor  and  Captain  Gen 

crall  gocih  to  church,  he  is  accompanied  with  all  the  C«»unsail- 
lors,  Captains,  other  officers,  and  all  the  gentlemen,  and  with  a 
guard  of  Halberdiers,  in  his  lordship's  livery,  faire  red  cloaks,  to 
the  number  of  fifty,  both  on  each  side  and  behind  him  :  and 
being  in  the  church,  his  lordship  hath  his  seate  in  the  Q).ier 
in  a  green  velvet  chair,  with  a  cloatli,  with  a  velvet  cushion 
id  on  a  table  before  him  on  which  he  kneeleth,  and  on  each 
side  sit  the  Counsell,  Captains,  and  officers,  each  in  their  place; 
and  when  he  returneth  home  again,  he  is  waited  on  to  his  house 
in  the  same  manner.' 

"  Something  stately,  these  devotions,  but  they  were  those  of 


128  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

the  times,  and  of — the  politician.  Religion  has  a  twofold  as 
pect,  and  concerns  society  as  well  as  the  individual,  though  not 
in  the  snme  degree.  And  this,  would  you  believe  it,  was  just 
ten  years  before  the  Puritans  landed  at  Plymouth.  Our  Vir 
ginians  were  clearly  not  wholly  regardless  of  those  serious  per 
formances  which  their  more  youthful  neighbors,  farther  East. 
claim  pretty  much  to  have  monopolized.  But  to  return.  It 
may  interest  many  readers  to  see  what  Strachey  further  says  of 
the  ancient  city  of  Jamestown. 

"  '  The  houses  first  raised  were  all  burnt,  by  a  casualty  of  fire, 
the  beginning  of  the  second  year  of  their  siat  [settlement]  and  in 
the  second  voyage  of  Captain  Newport ;  which  have  been  bet 
ter  rebuilted,  though  as  yet  in  no  great  uniformity,  either  for  the 
fashion  or  the  beauty  of  the  streete.  A  delicate  wrought  fine- 
kind  of  mat  the  fiuf&MJ  make,  with  which  (as  they  can  be 
trucked  for,  or  snatched  up*)  our  people  so  dress  their  chambers 
and  inward  rooms,  which  make  their  homes  so  much  the  more 
handsome.  The  houses  have  large  and  wide  country  chimnies 
in  the  which  is  to  be  supposed  (in  such  plenty  of  wood)  what 
fires  are  maintained ;  and  they  have  found  the  way  to  cover 
their  houses,  now  (as  the  Indians),  with  harkes  of  trees,  as  du 
rable  and  good  proofs  against  stormes  and  winter  weather  as  the 
best  tyle,  defending  likewise  the  piercing  sunbeams  of  summer 
and  keeping  the  inner  lodgings  coole  enough  which  before 
would  be  in  sultry  weather  like  stoves,  whilst  they  were,  as  at 
first,  pargetted  and  plaistered  with  bitumen  or  tough  clay ;  and 
thus  armed  for  the  injury  of  changing  times,  and  seasons  of  the 
the  year,  we  hold  ourselves  well  apaid,  though  wanting  array 

*This  matching  up  bothered  us  in  the  cnse  of  a  people  so  devout  in  their 
attendance  upon  church,  hut,  turning  to  the  Journal  of  the  Plymouth  Pilgrims 
(Cheever's)  we  found  at  their  vi-ry  f'r<t  entrance  upon  Indian  hind  a  similar  case 
of  snatching  up,  which  proves  the  practice  to  have  heen  no  ways  improper, 
even  if  not  exactly  religious.  At  page  34,  we  read,  that  our  heloved  Pilgrim*, 
found  where  the  "  naked  salvage*"  had  put  away  a  hasket  of  corne,  four  or  five 
bushels.  "  \Ve  were  in  suspi-u.se  \\hat  to  do  with  it,"  says  our  simple  chroni 
cler,  but  the  long  and  short  of  the  suspense  and  consultation  resulted  in  their 
taking  off  the  commodity  —  ir.  other  words,  "  snatching  up,"  which  they  did, 
with  the.  avowed  determination  if  they  ever  met  with  the  owner  to  satisfy  him 
for  his  grain.  Our  Virginian*,  I  fancy,  did  their  snatching  precisely  on  HIP 
^nm^  term* 


CONVERSION   OF   POCAHONTAS.  129 

hangings,  tapestry,  and  guilded  Venetian  cordovan,  or  more 
spruce  household  garniture,  and  wanton  city  ornaments,  remem 
bering  the  old  Epigraph  — 

"  '  We  dwelt  not  here  to  build  us  Barnes 

Ami  Hulls  for  pleasure  and  pood  cheer, 
But  Hulls  we  Iniilil  (or  UH  nml  ours 

To  dwell  in  them  while  we  live  here.' 

11  The  Puritans  could  not  have  expressed  themselves  more  de 
voutly.  Here  are  texts  to  stimulate  into  eloquence  a  thousand 
annual  self-applausive  orators,  for  a  thousand  years  to  come. 
That  this  was  the  prevailing  spirit  of  those  who  gave  tone  to  the 
colony,  and  not  the.  sentiments  of  a  single  individual,  hear  fur 
ther  ot  the  manner  in  which  that  most  excellent  ruler,  the  Lord 
Delaware,  first  made  his  approaches  to  the  colony.  This,  he  H 
remembered,  was  in  1(110,  ten  years  liet'ore  the  Plymouth  pil 
grims  brought  religion  to  the  benighted  West  :  — 

"'Upon  his  lordship's  landing,  at  the  south  gate  of  the  Palle- 
sado  (which  looks  into  the  river)  our  governor  caused  his  com 
pany  to  stand  in  order  and  make  a  guard.  It  pleased  him  that 
I  (William  Strachey)  should  bear  his  colours  for  that  time:  — 
Hi-*  lordship  landing,  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  before  us  all 
made  a  long  and  silent  prayer  to  himself,  and  alter  marching  up 
into  the  town  :  when  at  the  gate.  1  bowed  with  the  colours  and 
let  them  fall  at  his  Lordship's  feet,  who  pa«ed  into  the  chapelle, 
when-  he  heard  a  sermon  by  Master  Bucke,  our  Governor's 
preacher.'  &C. 

"To  pray  to  himself,  perhaps,  was  not  altogether  in  the 
spirit  of  that  very  intense  religion  which  some  portions  of  our 
countrv  so  love  to  culogi/e  ;  but  methinks  it  was  not  bad  for  our 
Virginia  (lovrrnor.  whom  their  better  neighbours  were  wont  to 
suppose  ne\er  prayed  at  all.  Hut  they  worked,  too,  as  well  as 
praye*!.  these  rollicking  Virginians:  and  their  works  survive 
them.  The  conversion  of  IWalnmtas —  the  possession  of  that 
bright  creature  of  a  wild  humanity  —  has  been  long  since  envied 
to  Virginia  by  all  the  other  colonies.  Take  the  account  of  her 
conversion  from  a  letter  of  Sir  Thomas  Dale  : — 

"  •Powhat.ufs  daughter  1  caused  to  be  carefully  instructed  in 
the  Chr  atian  religion,  who  after  she  had  made  some  good 
progresse  therein,  renounced  publickly  her  Country's  Idolatry 


130  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

openly  confessed  her  Christian  Faith,  was,  as  she  desired,  bap 
tized,  and  is  since  married  to  an  English  Gentleman  of  good  un 
derstanding —  as  by  his  letter  unto  me,  containing  the  reasons 
of  his  marriage  unto  her,  you  may  perceive.  Another  knot  to 
bind  the  knot  the  stronger.  Her  father  and  friends  gave  appro 
bation  of  it,  and  her  uncle  gave  her  to  him  in  the  Church  :  she 
lives  civilly  and  lovingly  with  him,  and  I  trust  will  increase  in 
goodnesse  as  the  knowledge  of  God  increaseth  in  her.  She  will 
goe  into  England  with  mee,  and  were  it  but  the  gaining  of  this 
one  such,  I  will  think  my  time,  toile,  and  present  stay,  well 
spent ' 

"  Enough  of  our  old  chronicler  for  a  single  sitting.  I  trust 
the  taste  will  lead  to  further  readings :  too  little  is  really  known 
of  our  early  histories.  We  gather  the  leading  facts,  perhaps, 
from  the  miserable  abridgments  that  flood  the  country,  and  too 
frequently  pervert  the  truth  ;  but,  at  best,  the  tone,  the  spirit 
of  the  history  is  sadly  lacking.  We  want  books  which  shall  not 
only  see  the  doings  of  our  fathers,  but  trace  and  appreciate 
their  sympathies  and  feelings  also.  But  the  bell  rings  for  sup 
per,  and  the  captain  signalizes  us  with  an  especial  leer  and 
wave  of  the  hand.  With  you  in  a  moment,  Senor,  as  soon  as  I 
have  laid  old  Purchas  on  his  pillow." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

"To  «erve  bravely  is  to  rome  linking  off  you  know." 


If  run/  IV 

"  ONE  lingers  thoughtfully  among  the  ruins  of  Jamestown.     It 

18,  of  cour.-e,  the  mere  fife  which  will  now  interest  you  in  its  con 
templation.  There  is  little  or  nothing  to  be  seen.  It  is  the  as- 
•ociation  only,  the  genius  loci,  that  offers  provocation  to  the  con 
templative  spirit.  You  behold  nothing  but  an  empty  and  l"iiLr- 
abandoned  nest  ;  but  it  is  the  nest  of  one  of  those  maternal  birds 
whose  prolific  nature  has  filled  the  nations.  The  ruins  which 
remain  of  Jamestou  n  consist  only  of  a  single  tower  of  the  old 
church.  In  the  dense  coppice  near  it.  you  set1  the  ancient  piles 
which  cover  the  early  dead  of  the  settlement.  The  towe.r  is  a 
somewhat  picturesque  object  by  itself,  though  it  depends  for  its 
charm  chiefly  <>n  its  historical  associations.  It  is  enough  of  the 
ruin  for  the  romantic,  and,  seen  by  moonlight,  the  arches  and 
the  "  rents  of  ruin,"  through  which  i\y  and  lichen,  shrub  and 
creeper,  make  their  appearance,  are  objects  which  fancv  will 
find  precious  to  those  even  who  never  turn  the  pages  of  our 
musty  chronicles,  and  hear  nothing  of  the  mournful  whispers  of 
the  past.  What  stores  of  tradition,  wild  song  and  wilder  story, 
are  yet  t<>  be  turned  up  with  the  soil  of  this  neighborhood,  or 
laid  bare  in  the  search  among  the  ruins  of  this  ancient  tow  er. 
Could  it  only  speak,  what  a  fascinating  hist.«r\  \\.-uld  it  reveal. 
What  gioiiOM  traditions  ought  to  in\e>t  the  locality.  What 
memories  are  awakened  by  iN  simple  ineiitii.n.  What  pictures 

!  not  paint  to  the  fancy  and  the  thought  !" 
Talking  of  traditions  of  the  'Old  Dominion,'  I  am  reminded 
<>l"  one  which  was  told  me  manv  \r.n-  Ago  bv  a  fellow  tra\eller, 
as  we  pursued  our  ^  ay  up  James  river.  He  insisted  that  there 
were  go(»d  authorities  tor  the  st««r\  \\hich  I  had  ra.-hlv  imputed 
to  his  own  invention.  He  was  «>ne  of  th»>r  peraOOi  who  never 


132  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

scruple  at  a  manufacture  of  their  own,  when  the  tiling  wanted 
is  not  exactly  ready  to  their  hands,  and  I  dare  not  answer  for 
the  chronicle." 

"  Let  us  have  it  by  all  means." 

The  ladies  seconded  the  entreaty,  and  our  fellow-voyager  began. 

"  You  are  aware,"  said  he,  "  that  in  the  early  settlement  of 
Virginia,  as  perhaps  in  the  case  of  all  colonists  in  a  new  coun 
try,  there  is  always  at  first  a  lamentable  dearth  of  women.  The 
pioneers  were  greatly  at  a  loss  what  to  do  for  wives  and  house 
keepers.  Nothing  could  be  more  distressing." 

"As  Campbell  sings  it,  of  a  more  select  region  — 

"  'Thr  world  WHS  sad,  the  garden  was  a  wild, 

And  mini  tin-  hfimit  sighed  —  till  woman  smiled.'  " 

"  Precisely  !  Our  Virginians  felt  particularly  lonesome  along 
the  wildernesses  of  James  river,  as  is  the  case  even  now  with 
our  Californians  along  the  Sacramento  and  other  golden  waters." 
"  Nay,  they  are  much  more  charitable  now.  The  gold  re 
gions  are  not  so  barren  of  beauty  as  you  think.  This  may  be 
owing  to  the  greater  safety  of  the  enterprise.  In  1600  a  young 
woman  incurred  some  peril  of  losing  a  scalp  while  seeking  a 
swain  in  the  territories  of  that  fierce  Don  of  Potomacke,  Pow- 
hatan." 

"  The  danger  certainly  was  of  a  sort  to  demand  consideration. 
It  \vas  one  which  the  old  girls  might  be  permitted  to  meditate 
almost  as  cautiously  as  the  young  ones.  At  all  events,  our 
'  guid  folk'  in  the  Old  Dominion  felt  the  need  of  a  supply,  the 
demand  being  n<>  les>  earnest  than  pressing.  Thev  commissioned 
their  friends  and  agents  in  England  to  supply  tln-ir  wants  with 
all  despatch,  making  the  required  qualifications  as  moderate  and 
few  as  possible,  the  better  to  insure  the  probability  of  being  pro 
vided.  The  proprietaries,  alter  a  solemn  counsel  together,  ar 
rived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  requisition  was  by  no  means  an 
unreasonable  one ;  a  conclusion  to  which  they  arrived  more 
readily  from  the  great  interest  which  their  own  wives  respect 
ively  took  in  tin-  discussion.  Efforts  were  accordingly  made 
for  meeting  the  wishes  o: 'the  colonists.  Advertisements,  which, 
it  is  said,  are  still  to  he  found  in  the  news  organs  of  the  day  — 
were  put  forth  in  London  and  elsewhere,  announcing  the  nature 
of  the  demand  and  soliciting  the  supply.  Much,  of  course,  was 


WIVES   WANTED.  133 

said  in  tavor  of  the  beauty  and  resources  of  the  country  in  which 
the\  ;>ected  to  seek  a  home.  Much  ulso  was  urged  in 

behalf  of  the  individual  settlers,  whose  demands  were  most  ur 
gent.  They  were  of  good  health  and  body,  very  able  and  dil 
igent,  men  of  moral  and  muscle,  very  capable  of  maintaining 
church  and  state,  and  contributing  in  a  thousand  ways  to  the 
growth  and  pood  of  both.'  I'ertain  of  them  were  especially 
4«§cxibed  with  names  given,  not  omitting  sundry  cogent  particu 
lars  in  resju-ct  tn  their  moneyed  means,  employments,  and  general 
worhlly  condition.  In  brief,  aide-bodied,  \vell-limhed  and  well- 
visaged  young  women,  were  assured  of  finding  themselves  well 
matched  and  honorably  housed  within  the  sylvan  paradise  of 
1'owhatan,  as  soon  as  they  should  arrive.  The  ad\  ei tisements 
prudently  forbore  to  insist  upon  any  special  certificates — SO 
necessary  when  housemaids  are  to  be  chosen  -of  character  and 
manners.  A  small  bounty,  indeed,  was  offered  with  outfit  and 
free  passage. 

"  The  appeal  to  the  gentle  hearts  and  Christian  charities  of  the 
sex,  was  not  made  in  vain.  A  goodly  number  soon  offered 
themselves  for  the  adventure,  most  of  whom  were  supposed  likely 
to  meet  the  wishes  of  the  hungry  colonists.  The  standards  u« -re 
not  overly  high  —  the  commissioners,  appreciating  the  sell-sacri 
ficing  spirit  which  governed  the  damsel  —  were  not  disposed  to 
\acting.  Then-  were  some  of  the  damsels  of  much  and  decided 
gn.wth  — -Mine  were  distinguished  more  by  size  than  sweeti 
others  again  might — though  they  modestly  forebore  to  do  so— -this 
is  the  one  failing  of  the  sex  —  boast  of  their  ripe  antiquity  ;  none 
of  them  were  remarkable  tor  tln-ir  beauty,  but  as  ail  parties 
agn-ed  to  e\;»de  this  (,.pic  —  for  reasons  no  doubt  good  enough 
in  those  days — We  \siil  not  make  it  a  subject  of  discussion  in 
ours.  There  was  one  onlv.  among  t  .  about  whom  the 

(•'•mmisMon.-is  came  to  a  dead  pause  —  an  absolute  halt  —  and 
finally  to  a  grave  renewal  of  their  deliberations. 

•   I;      ;   i.-;.   thus  in  danger  of  rejection,  wns  comely  enough  to 
tiir  •  ling   to  the  standards  adopted    in  the   general 

ognitioii  ,,i'  applicants.  She  was  fair  enough,  and  strong 
rnough.  and  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  she  was  quite  old 
enough,  but  there  was  not  quite  enough  of  her. 

"  She  was  minu.*  a  leg  ! 


134  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

"  Was  this  a  disqualification  or  not  ?  That  was  the  difficult 
,  question.  When  first  presenting  herself,  it  was  observed  that 
she  had  advanced  a  foot.  The  foot  was  a  good  one  —  a  foot  of 
size  and  character,  and  the  log  which  accompanied  it,  and  of 
which  more  was  exhibited  than  was  absolutely  necessary  tc  the 
examination,  was  admitted  to  be  an  unobjectionable  leg.  But 
somehow,  one  of  the  commissioners  begged  leave  to  see  the  other. 
This  literally  occasioned  a  halt.  In  place  of  the  required  mem 
ber,  she  thrust  forward  a  stick  of  English  oak,  which  might  have 
served  to  splice  the  bowsprit  of  a  Baltimore  clipper. 

"  There  was  a  sensation  —  a  decided  sensation.  The  commis 
sioners  were  taken  all  aback.  They  hemmed  and  hawed.  A 
consideration  of  the  peculiar  case  was  necessary. 

" '  My  good  woman,'  quoth  one  of  the  commissioners,  who 
served  as  spokesman.  '  You  have  but  one  leg.' 

"  '  You  see,  your  honor.  But  it's  sure  I  shall  be  less  apt  to  run 
away  from  the  guid  man.' 

"  '  True  ;  but  whether  that  consideration  will  be  sufficient  to 
reconcile  him  to  the  deficiency.' 

" '  Why  not  ?'  answered  the  fair  suitor,  '  seeing  that  I  am  n 
woman  for  all  that.' 

" '  But  you  are  not  a  perfect  woman.' 

"'Will  your  honor  be  so  good  as  to  mention  if  you  ever  did 
meet  with  a  perfect  woman  .'' 

"  This  was  a  poser.  The  commissioners  were  men  of  expe 
rience.  They  had  seen  something  of  the  world.  They  were 
all  women's  men.  The  woman  was  too  much  for  them.  They 
went  again  into  consultation.  The  question  was  a  serious  one. 
Could  a  woman  be  &  complete  woman  —  a  perfect  one  was  not 
now  the  question  —  who  had  but  a  single  leg?  The  subject  of 
discussion  was  reduced  to  this :  what  are  the  requisites  of  a  wife  * 
in  Virginia  ?  The  result  was,  that  they  resolved  to  let  the 
woman  go,  and  take  her  chance.  They  could  not  resist  a  will 
so  determined.  They  were  naturally  dubious  whether  any  «>f 
tlie  sturdy  adventurers  in  the  realm  of  Powhatan  would  be  alto 
gether  willing  to  splice  with  a  lame  damsel  not  particularly 
charming,  or  attractive  in  any  respect:  but  women  for  such  an 
••xjiedition  were  not  in  excess.  The  demand  from  James  river 
for  wives  was  exceedingly  urgent ;  the  woman's  frankness  pleased 


THE  L\ME   DUCK.  185 

the  commissioners,  ami  her  confidence  of  success  finally  encour 
aged  them  with  a  similar  hope  *>n  her  behalf.  They  gave  her 
the  necessary  funds  ami  certificate,  partially  persuaded  that  — 

\    in  >t;ttf, 
\\  h  .  <•:,-.[  r.ni  find  sonn-  i;:indiT  fur  li«-r  mate.' 

And  the  cripple  went  on  her  way  swimmingly." 

-  And  the  event  ?" 

••Justified  the  faith  of  the  legless  damsel  in  the  bounty  of 
IV'.N  idenee.  Very  great  was  the  rejoicing  in  James  river,  when 
the  stout  vessel  wearing  Knglish  colors  was  seen  pressing  up 
the  stream.  They  knew  what  they  had  to  expect,  and  each 
va-  eager  f«»r  hi<  prize.  The  stout  yeomanry  of  Jamestown 
turned  out  *//  n-h  in  his  best  costume  and  behavior;  and 

as  each  had  yet  to  make  his  choice,  and  a-,  a  wife  is  always, 
more  or  less,  the  subject  of  some  choice,  each  was  anxious  to 
get  on  board  the  ship  in  advance  of  his  comrades.  Never  wa< 
there  sneli  a  scramble.  Wives  rose  in  demand  and  value;  ami 
but  little  time  was  consumed  in  seeing  the  parties  paired,  and, 
two  by  two.  returning  from  the  vessel  to  the  shore.  HOW 
proudly  they  departed  —  our  brave  adventurers,  each  with  his 
pretty  commodity  tucked  under  his  arm  !  The  supply  fell 
short  of  the  demand.  There  were  se\ eral  who  retired  with  sad 
hearts,  and  h.uely  as  they  came.  All  were  snatched  up  except 
our  lame  girl  ;  but  she  was  not  the  person  to  despair.  She  put 
on  her  sweetest  smiles,  as  the  unsnpplied  seekers  circled  about 
her.  They  had  no  objection  to  her  face.  Her  smiles  were  suf 
ficiently  attractive  ;  but  that  leg  of  Knglish  oak,  which  she  in 
vain  strove  to  pucker  up  under  her  petticoats.  The  truth  had 
leaked  «.ut  ;  and  it  was  no  go.  Though  grievously  in  want  of 
the  furniture  so  necessary  to  a  warm  household,  it  was  rather 
too  much  to  require  our  u  ell-shaped  and  dashing  Virginians  to 
couple  with  a  damsel  of  but  one  leg;  and  after  circling  her  with 
wobegom-  visages,  half-doubting  what  to  do,  they  at  length  dis- 
apj"  1'V  -lie.  resolved  to  await  a  new  ship,  and  a  bride 

of  adequate  members.  The  prospect  for  our  lame  duck  became 
rather  unpromising;  but  Fortune,  amid  all  her  blindnesses  and 
caprice-;,  is  usually  governed  by  a  certain  sense  «.f  propriety  and 
fitness.  It  so  happened  that  there  was  a  cobbler  in  the  colony. 
whose  trade  had  been  chosen  with  reference  to  the  painful  fact 


136  SOUTHWARD    H<>! 

that  he  had  no  leg  at  all.  He,  poor  fellow,  needing  a  wife  as 
much  as  any  of  the  rest,  had  but  little  hope  of  having  his  wants 
supplied  by  the  present  consignment.  It  was  doubtful  whether 
he  could  have  ventured  to  hope  under  any  circumstances — 
still  more  absurd  to  hope  when  the  supply  was  small,  the  seek 
ers  many,  and  all  in  the  market  before  himself.  And  when  he 
saw  those  returning  who  had  failed  to  secure  companions,  he 
naturally  gave  up  all  notion,  if  he  had  ever  dared  to  entertain 
any,  of  gratifying  his  domestic  ambition.  But  as  these  disap 
pointed  adventurers  crossed  him  on  their  return,  and  saw  the 
wistful  eyes  which  he  cast  upon  the  vessel,  they  bade  him  deri 
sively  go  and  seek  his  fortune. 

"'Now's  your  chance,  old  fellow!'  He  soon  gathered  the 
intelligence,  and  at  first  his  soul  revolted  at  the  idea  of  coupling 
with  a  lame  woman. 

" '  A  woman,'  said  he  to  himself,  '  gains  enough  when  she  gets 
a  husband.  She  ought  to  be  finished  at  the  least.  Nothing 
should  be  wanting.' 

"  But  a  moment's  reflection  made  him  more  indulgent.  He 
seized  his  cratches  and  made  toward  the  vessel.  Then  he  be 
thought  himself  again  and  made  toward  his  cabin.  But  the 
tempter  prevailed,  and  he  hobbled  slowly  forward.  With  help 
he  was  at  length  brought  into  the  vessel  and  the  presence  of 
the  waiting  spinster. 

"  She  had  been  long  enough  on  the  anxious  benches.  They 
had  been  a  sort  of  torture  to  her  patience  as  well  as  her  hope. 

"  '  Why/  said  he  —  as  if  only  now  apprized  of  her  deficiency  — 
you've  got  but  one  leg.' 

"'And  you've  got  none,'  she  answered  pertly. 

"This  threw  him  into  u  cold  sweat.  He  now  feared  that  he 
should  lost-  his  prize.  '  What  of  that  ?'  said  he  — '  better  a  lame 
donkey  than  no  hi>r>»-.  1-  it  a  match  I  I'm  for  you.' 

"It  was  now  her  time  to  demur.  She  walked  all  round  him, 
he  wheeling  about  the  while  with  the,  utmost  possible  effort,  to 
show  how  agile,  he  could  he,  legless  or  not.  'The  man  was  good- 
looking  enough,  minus  his  pins;  and  after  a  painful  pause  —  to 
one  of  the  parties  at  least  —  she,  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  The  cobbler's  rapture  was  complete.  A  chair  was  slung 
down  the  ship's  side.  Scarcely  had  this  been  done  wher 


MAT«  HKl>    Afl    WKLL    AS    PAIRED.  137 

one  of  the  former  seekers  reappeared.  He  was  now  willing  to 
take  the  lame  damsel;  but  our  cobbler  suffered  no  time  for  de 
liberation.  He  did  not  dare  exercise  any  foolish  generosity  in 
leaving  it  to  her  t<>  choose  between  the  two. 

"  His  choler  was  roused.  It  was  hit  betrothed  to  whom  the 
wooer  came,  and,  with  a  tremendous  flourish  of  one  of  his 
crutches  our  cripple  made  at  the  intruder.  This  demonstration 
was  sufficient.  !!»•  wa>  allowed  to  retain  liis  prize.  The  can 
didate  hurried  off,  cooling  his  thirst  with  whatever  philosophy 
lie  could  muster.  When  the  bridal  took  place,  many  were  the 
jests  at  the  expense  of  mir  cripple  coujile.  Kven  the  priest 
who  united  them  was  not  unwilling  to  share  in  the  humor  of  the 
scene,  making  puns  upon  the  occasion,  Mich  a-  have  been  cheap 
ened  .somewhat  liy  a  too  frequent  circulation. 

•"  1  know  not,  good  people,1  he  said,  '  whether  you  can  prop 
erly  contract  marriage,  seeing  that  you  both  lack  sufficient 
understanding.' 

"'No  man  should  marry  with  a  woman,'  said  one  of  the  spec- 
1  wh«-  teaches  the  utter  ii.-ele-Mie-s  of  his  own  vocation.' 

"'And  why  they  .should  he  married  under  a  Christian  dis 
pensation.  1  can  not  -er,'  £AJ  the  comment  of  a  third,  '  set-ing 
that  neither  of  them  are  prepared  to  give  proper  heed  to  their 


"•  It  will  be  a  marriage  to  hind,'  .said  a  fourth,  'seeing  that 
neither  can  \\ell  run  away  from  the  other.' 

8    \\"ii't    trouble    him    long,'   said    he    who    had    come    a 
moment  too  late,  —  'she  has  already  one  foot  in  the  gra\e. 

"The  crutch  of  the  cripple  \\  a-  again  uplifted. 

"  •  Tar-on,'  .-aid  he.  'make  u-  fast,  please,  as  8OOI1  E8  pO681- 
hle.  1  leckou,  if  there's  hut  "lie  leg  between  us,  there's  no  law 
agin  our  children  having  a  full  complement.' 

"  Whereat  the  betrothed    hlu.shed  prettily,  and    the  ceremony 

proceeded." 

Our  companion's  narrative  might  be  all  true,  for  what  we 
know.  It.s  elements  were  all  probable  enough.  But  tin-  -t»ry 
rather  whet  than  pacified  the  appetite  ;  other  legends  were 
called  for,  and  the  following  legend  of  Venice,  founded  also  OB 
history,  succeeded  to  that  of  the  Virginian. 


138  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 


THE    BRIDE    OF    FATE. 
CHAPTER   I. 

IT  was  a  glad  day  in  Venice.  The  eve  of  the  Feast  of  the 
Pnrification  had  arrived,  and  all  those  maidens  of  the  Republic, 
whose  names  had  been  written  in  the  "  Book  of  Gold,"  were 
assembled  with  their  parents,  their  friends  and  lovers — a  beau 
tiful  and  joyous  crowd  —  repairing,  in  the  gondolas  provided  by 
the  Republic,  to  the  church  of  San  Pietro  di  Castella,  at  Olivolo, 
which  was  the  roidence  of  the  patriarch.  This  place  was  on  the 
extreme  verge  of  the  city,  a  beautiful  and  isolated  spot,  its  pre 
cincts  almost  without  inhabitants,  a  ghostly  and  small  priesthood 
excepted,  whose  grave  habits  and  taciturn  seclusion  seemed  to 
lend  an  additional  aspect  of  solitude  to  the  neighborhood.  It 
was,  indeed,  a  solitary  and  sad-seeming  region,  which  to  the 
thoughtless  and  unmeditattve,  might  be  absolutely  gloomy.  But 
it  was  not  the  less  lovely  as  a  place  suited  equally  for  the  pic 
turesque  and  the  thoughtful ;  and,  just  now,  it  was  very  far  from 
gloomy  or  solitary.  The  event  which  was  in  hand  was  decreed 
to  enliven  it  in  especial  degree,  and  in  its  consequences,  to  im 
press  its  characteristics  on  the  memory  for  long  generations  after. 
It  was  the  day  of  St.  Mary's  Eve — a  day  set  aside  from  imme 
morial  time  for  a  great  and  peculiar  festival.  All,  accordingly, 
was  life  and  joy  in  the  sea  republic.  The  marriages  of  a  goodly 
company  of  the  high-born,  the  young  and  the  beautiful,  \\ere  t<> 
be  cdel •  rated  on  this  occasion,  and  in  public,  according  to  the 
custom.  Headed  by  the  doge  himself,  Pietro  Candiano,  the 
city  M-nt  f«>ith  its  thousands.  The  ornamented  gondolas  plied 
hu-!ly  fniiii  an  dcrly  hour  in  the  morning,  from  the  city  to  Oli 
volo  ;  and  there,  amidst  music  and  merry  <rratuIatioiiR  of  friends 
and  kindred,  the  lovers  disembarked.  They  were  all  clad  in 
their  richest  array.  Silks,  which  caught  their  colors  from  the 
rainbow,  and  jewels  that  had  inherited,  even  in  their  caverns, 
their  beauti-  s  from  the  Mm  and  -tars,  met  the  eye  in  all  direc 
tions.  Wealth  had  put  on  all  its  riches,  and  beauty,  always 
modest,  was  not  satisfied  with  her  intrinsic  loveliness.  All  that 
conl'l  delight  the  eye.  in  personal  decorations  and  nuptial  orna 
ments,  was  displayed  to  the  eager  gaze  of  curiosity,  and,  for  a 


Tin:  HKART'S  SACRIFICE.  139 

moment,  the  treasures  of  the  city  were  transplanted  to  the  soli 
t'lde  and  waste. 

But  gorgeous  and  grand  as  was  the  spectacle,  and  joyous  as 
was  the  crowd,  there  were  some  at  the  festival,  some  young, 
throbbing  hearts.  wh<>,  though  deeply  interested  in  its  proceed 
ings,  felt  anything  hut  gladness.  While  most  of  the  betrothed 
thrilled  only  with  rapturous  anticipations  that  might  have  hem 
counted  in  the  strong  pulsations  that  made  the  bosom  heave  rap 
idly  beneath  the  close  pressure  of  the  virgin  zone,  there  were 
yet  others,  who  felt  only  that  sad  sinking  of  the  heart  which  de 
clares  nothing  but  its  hopeh  nd  desolation.  There  were 
victims  to  he  sacrificed  as  well  as  virgins  to  he  made  happv,  and 
girdled  in  by  thousands  of  the  brave  and  goodly  —  by  golden 
images  and  flaunting  banners,  and  speaking  symbols  —  by  music 
and  by  smiles  —  there  were  more  hearts  than  one  that  longed  to 
escape  from  all,  to  fly  away  to  some  far  solitude,  where  the 
voices  of  such  a  joy  as  was  now  present  could  vex  the  defrauded 
soul  no  more.  As  the  fair  procession  moved  onward  and  up 
through  the  gorgeous  avenues  of  the  cathedral  to  the  altar-place, 
where  stood  the  venerable  patriarch  in  waiting  for  their  coming, 
in  order  to  begin  the  solemn  but  grateful  rites,  you  might  have 
marked,  in  the  crowding  groups,  the  face  of  one  meek  damsel, 
which  declared  a  heart  very  far  removed  from  hope  or  joyful 
••'  tation.  I,  that  tearful  eye  —  is  that  pallid  cheek  —  that 
lip,  now  so  tremulously  convulsed  —  are  these  proper  to  one 
going  to  a  bridal,  and  that  her  own?  Where  is  her  anticipated 
joy  '.  It  is  not  in  that  despairing  vacancy  of  face  —  not  in  that 
feeble,  faltering,  almost  fainting  footstep  —  not.  certainly,  in  any 
thing  that  we  behold  about  the  maiden,  unless  we  seek  it  in  the 
rich  and  flaming  jewels  with  which  -he  is  decorated  and  almost 
laden  down  ;  and  these  no  more  declare  for  her  emotions  than 
the  roses  which  encircle  the  neck  of  the  white  lamb,  as  it  is  led 
to  the  altar  and  the  priest.  The  late  of  the  two  is  not  unlike, 
and  so  also  is  their  character.  Francesca  Ziani  is  decreed  for  a 
sacrifice.  She  was  one  of  those  sweet  and  winning,  but  feeble 
spirits,  which  know  how  to  subn.it  only.  She  has  no  powers  of 
resistance.  She  know,  that  she  is  a  victim  ;  she  feels  that  her 
heart  has  been  wronged  even  to  the  death,  by  the  duty  to  which 
it  is  now  commanded  ;  -he  feels  that  it  is  thu>  made  the  cruel 


140  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

Imt  unwilling  instrument  for  doing  a  mortal  wrong  to  the  heart 
of  another  ;  hut  she  lacks  the  courage  to  refuse,  to  resist,  to  die 
rather  than  submit.  Her  nature  only  teaches  her  submission  ; 
and  this  is  the  language  of  the  wo-begone,  despairing  glance, 
but  one  which  she  bestows,  in  passing  up  the  aisle,  upon  one 
who  stands  beside  a  column,  close  to  her  progress,  in  whose 
countenance  she  perceives  a  fearful  struggle,  marking  equally 
his  indignation  and  his  grief. 

Giovanni  Gradenigo  was  one  of  the  noblest  cavaliers  of  Ven 
ice —  but  nobleness,  as  we  know,  is  not  always,  perhaps  not  often, 
the  credential  in  behalf  of  him  who  seeks  a  maiden  from  her  pa 
rents.  He  certainly  was  not  the  choice  of  Francesca's  sire.  The 
poor  girl  was  doomed  to  the  embraces  of  one  Ulric  Barberigo,  a 
man  totally  destitute  of  all  nobility,  that  alone  excepted  which 
belonged  to  wealth.  This  shone  in  the  eyes  of  Francesca's 
parents,  but  failed  utterly  to  attract  her  own.  She  saw,  through 
the  heart's  simple,  unsophisticated  medium,  the  person  of  Giovanni 
Gradenigo  only.  Her  sighs  were  given  to  him,  her  loathings  to 
the  other.  Though  meek  and  finally  submissive,  she  did  not 
yield  without  a  remonstrance,  without  mingled  tears  and  entreat 
ies,  which  were  found  unavailing.  The  ally  of  a  young  damsel 
is  naturally  her  mother,  and  when  she  fails  her,  her  best  human 
hope  is  lost.  Alas  !  for  the  poor  Francesca  !  It  was  her  moth 
er's  weakness,  blinded  by  the  wealth  of  Ulric  Barberigo,  that 
rendered  the  father's  will  so  stubborn.  It  was  the  erring  mother 
that  wilfully  beheld  hor  daughter  led  to  the  sacrifice,  giving  no 
heed  to  the  heart  which  was  breaking,  even  beneath  its  heavy 
weight  of  jewels.  How  completely  that  mournful  and  despond 
ing,  that  entreating  and  appealing  glance  to  her  indignant  lover, 
told  her  wretched  history.  There  he  stood,  stern  as  well  as  sad, 
leaning,  afl  if  for  support,  upon  the  arm  of  his  kinsman,  Nicolo 
Malapieri.  11  and  in  utter  despair,  he  thus  lin 

gered,  as  if  under  a  strange  and  fearful  fascination,  watching 
the  progress  of  the  proceedings  which  were  striking  fatally, 
with  every  movement,  upon  the  sources  of  his  own  hope  and 
happiness.  His  resolution  rose  with  his  desperation,  and  he  sud 
denly  shook  himself  tree  from  his  friend. 

"  I  will  not  bear  this,  Nicolo,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  must  not  suf 
fer  it  without  another  effort,  though  it  be  the  last." 


THE   REJECTED    LOVER. 

"What  would  you  do,  Giovanni."  demanded  Ms  kinsman, 
praspinp  him  hy  the  wrist  a*  he  spoke,  and  arresting  his  move 
ment. 

"Shall  I  see  her  thus  sacrificed  —  delivered  to  misery  and  the 
pravr  \  •  •:•!  they  shall  not  so  lord  it  over  true  affections  to 
their  loss  and  mine.  France .-« -a  u,i-  mine  —  is  mine  —  even  now, 
in  the  very  sight  of  Heaven.  How  often  hath  she  vowed  it ! 
Her  glance  avows  it  now.  My  lips  shall  as  boldly  declare  it 
again  ;  and  as  1 1  raven  has  heard  our  vows,  the.  church  shall  hear 
them.  The  patriarch  shall  hear.  Hearts  must  not  he  wronged 
—  Heaven  must  not  thus  he  defrauded.  That  selfish,  vain 
woman,  her  mother  —  that  mercenary  monster,  miscalled  her 
father  —  have  no  hetter  rights  than  mine  —  none  half  so  pood. 
They  shall  hear  me.  Stand  by  me,  Nieolo.  while  1  >peak  !" 

This  was  the  lan^uajre  of' a  passion,  which,  howe\er  true,  was 
equally  unmeasured  and  impnident.  The  friend  of  the  unhappy 
lover  would  have  held  him  hack. 

•  It  is  all  in  vain,  Giovanni  !  Think  !  my  friend,  you  can  do 
nothing  now.  It  is  too  late;  nor  is  there  any  power  to  prevent 
this  consummation.  Their  names  have  hern  h»njr  since  written 
in  the  'Hook  of  Cold.'  and  the  doge  himself  may  not  alter  the 
destii 

"The  Hook  MJ' Cold1"  exclaimed  the  other.  "  Ay,  the  'Bride 
of  (.old!'  hut  \\e  shall  >ee|"  Ami  he  a«rain  started  forward. 
Hi-  kinsman  rlunjr  to  him. 

••  I'H-U.T  that  \v  e  Irave  thi<  place,  ( iiovanni.  It  was  wrong 
that  you  should  come.  1.,-t  us  ^o.  Y«ui  will  only  commit  si, me 
folly  to  remain." 

\v  !  it  is  f,,lly  to  lie  wn-jj-r.l.  and  to  Mihinit  to  it.  I  know  ' 
ft.lly  to  liave  telt  and  still  to  feel  !  folly.  Mirely.  to  di-royer.  and 
to  live  atier  the  discovery,  that  the  very  crown  that  made  life 
preci»us  i.s  h.vt  to  you  f,,r  ,-\ei-  !  What  master  if  I  should  com. 
mit  this  folly  !  Well,  indeed,  if  they  who  laujrh  at  the  fool, 
taste  none  of  the  wrath  that  they  provoke." 

"  This  is  -heei-  madness,  ( Jiovanni." 

"  Rrleasr  me.  Nicol.i." 

Tlie  kinsman  ui^ed  in  vain.  Thr  dialogue,  which  wascanied 
on  in  \iin\ct  ;.»!»«•>,  uo\\  rnioired  by  animated  action,  bi-^an  to 
attract  attention.  The  procrvSi.»n  waw  moving  forward.  The 


142  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

deep  anthem  began  to  swell,  and  Giovanni,  wrought  to  the  high 
est  pitch  of  frenzy  by  the  progress  of  events,  and  by  the  opposi 
tion  of  Nicolo,  now  broke  away  from  all  restraint,  and  hurried 
through  the  crowd.  The  circle,  dense  and  deep,  had  already 
gathered  closely  about  the  altar-place,  to  behold  the  ceremony. 
The  desperate  youth  made  his  way  through  it.  The  crowd 
gave  way  at  his  approach,  and  under  the  decisive  pressure  of 
his  person.  They  knew  his  mournful  history — for  when  does 
the  history  of  love's  denial  and  defeat  fail  to  find  its  way  to  the 
world's  curious  hearing  I  Giovanni  was  beloved  in  Venice.  .  Such 
a  history  as  his  and  Francesca's  was  sure  to  beget  sympathy, 
particularly  with  all  those  who  could  find  no  rich  lovers  for  them 
selves  or  daughters,  such  as  Ulric  Barberigo.  The  fate  of  the 
youthful  lovers  drew  all  eyes  upon  the  two.  A  tearful  inter*  -t 
in  the  event  began  to  pervade  the  assembly,  and  Giovanni  really 
found  no  such  difficulty  as  would  have  attended  the  efforts  <>f 
any  i  it  her  person  to  approach  the  sacred  centre  of  the  bridal 
circle.  He  made  his  way  directly  for  the  spot  where  Franc«'M-a 
stood.  She  frit  his  approach  and  presence  by  the  most  natural 
instincts,  though  without  ever  daring  to  lift  her  eye  to  his  person. 
A  more  deadly  paleness  than  ever  came  over  her,  and  as  she 
heard  the  first  sounds  of  his  voice,  she  faltered  and  grasped  a 
column  for  support.  The  patriarch,  startled  by  the  sounds  of 
confusion,  rose  from  the  sacred  cushions;  and  spread  his  hands 
over  thr  assembly  for  silence;  but  as  yet  he  failed  to  conceive 
the  occasion  for  commotion.  Meanwhile,  the  parents  and  rela 
tives  of  Francesca  had  gathered  around  her  person,  as  if  to  guard 
her  from  an  enemy.  I'lric  Barberigo,  the  millionaire,  put  on  the 
aspect  of  a  man  whose  word  was  law  on  'change.  He,  too,  had 
bis  retainers,  all  looking  daggers,  at  the  intruder.  Fortunately 
for  Giovanni,  they  were  permitted  to  wear  none  at  these  peace 
ful  ceremonials.  Their  looks  of  wrath  did  not  discourage  the 
approach  of  our  lover.  He  did  not  seem,  indeed,  to  see  them, 
but  gently  putting  them  by,  lie  drew  near  to  the  scarcely  con 
scious  maiden.  He  lifted  the  almost  lifeless  hand  from  her  side, 
and  pressing  it  within  both  his  own,  a  proceeding  which  her 
mother  vainly  endeavored  to  prevent,  he  addn-ssed  the  maiden 
with  all  that  irnpressiveriess  of  tone  which  declares  a  stifled  but 


SCENE    AT    THK    ALTAR.  143 

still  present  and  passionate  emotion  in  the  heart.     His  words 
were  of  a  touching  sorrow. 

"And  is  it  thus,  my  Franccsca,  that  I  must  look  upon  thee 
for  the  last  time  .'  Henceforth,  are  we  to  be  dead  to  one  an 
other?  Is  it  thus  that  I  am  to  hear  that,  forgetful  of  thy  virgin 
vows  to  Gradenigo,  thou  art  lie  re  calling  Heaven  to  witness  that 
thou  givest  thyself  and  affections  to  another?" 

"  Not  willingly,  O  I  not  willingly,  Giovanni,  as  I  live  !  I  have 
not  forgotten  —  alas!  I  can  not  forget — that  I  have  once  vowed 
myself  to  thee.  Hut  I  pray  thee  to  forget,  Giovanni.  Forget 
me  and  forgive  —  forgive  !" 

Oh!  how  mournfully  was  this  ivspoiis*-  delivered.     There  was 
a  -lead  silence  throughout  the  assemMy ;  a  silence  which  inij" 
a  similar  restraint  even  upon  the  parenN  of  the  maiden,  who  had 
shown  a  desire  to  arrest  the  speaker.     They  had  appealed  to 
the  patriarch  ;   but  the  venerable  man  was  wise  enough  to  per 
ceive  that  this  was  the  last  open  expression  of  a  passion  which 
must  have  its  utterance  in  some  form,  and  if  not  this,  must  result 
in  greater  mischief.     His   decision    tacitly   sanctioned  the  inter 
view  as  we  have  witnessed  it.      It   was  with   increased  faltering, 
which   to   the   bystanders   seemed   almost  fainting,  that  the  un- 
happv   France-sea  thus  responded  to  her  lover.      Her  words  were 
little  more  than  whispers,  and  his  tones,  though  deep.  were  very 
low  and  subdued,  as  if  spoken  while  the  teeth  were  shut.    There 
was   that    in    the    scene   which    brought    forward   the    crowd   in 
breathless  anxiety  to  hear,  and  the  proud  heart  of  the  damsel's 
mother  revolted  at  an  exhibition  in  which  her  position  was  by  no 
means  a  grateful  one.     She  would  have  wiv-ted,  even  by  vio 
lence,  tin-  hand  of  her  daughter  from  the  grasp  ,,f  Giovanni  ;    but 
he  retained  it  firmly,  the  maiden  herself  being  scarcely  conscious 
that  he  did  UK     Hi-  e\  |  \\  ftfl  -'ernly  fixed  upon  the  mother,  as  he 
drew  Franceses  toward  himself.    His  words  followed  his  looks  :  — 
•'Have    y<>n    not    enough    triumphed,   lady,    in    thus    bringing 
about  your  cruel  purpox,-,  to  the    sacrifice    of  two    hearts  —  your 
child's  no  less  than  mine  I   Mine  was  nothing  to  you  —  but  i 
what  had  she  done  that  you   should    trample   upon  hers?     This 
hast  thou   done!      Thou   hast   triumphed!      What  woiildst    thou 
more?     Must  -he  be  denied  the  mournful  privilege  of  saying  her 
last  parting  with  him  to  whom  she  vowed  herself,  ere  she 


144  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

herself  to  another!  For  shame,  lady;  this  is  a  twofold  and 
needles>  tyranny  '" 

As  he  spoke,  the  more  gentle  and  sympathizing  spirits  around 
looked  upon  the  .stern  mother  with  faces  of  the  keenest  rebuke 
and  indignation.  Giovanni  once  more  addressed  himself  to  the 
maiden. 

"And  if  you  do  not  love  this  man,  my  Francesca,  why  IB  it 
that  you  so  weakly  yield  to  his  solicitings  1  Why  submit  to  this 
sacrifice  at  any  instance  ?  Have  they  strength  to  subdue  thee  ? 

—  has  he  the  art  to  ensnare  thee  ?  —  canst  thou  not  declare  thy 
affections  with   a  will  ?     What  magic  is  it   that  they  employ 
which  is  thus  superior  to  that  of  love?  —  and  what  is  thy  right 

—  if  heedless  of  the  affections  of'/////  heart  —  to  demand  the  sac 
rifice  of  mine  1     Thou  hadst  it  in  thy  keeping,  Francesca,  as  I 
fondly  fancied  I  had  thine!" 

••  Thou  hadst  —  thou  hadst! — " 

"  Francesca,  my  child!"  was  the  expostulating  exclamation 
of  the  mother  ;  but  it  failed,  except  for  a  single  instant,  to  arrest 
the  passionate  answer  of  the  maiden. 

"Hear  me,  and  pity,  Giovanni,  if  you  may  not  forgive! 
Blame  me  for  my  infirmity  —  for  the  wretched  weakness  which 
has  brought  me  to  this  defeat  of  thy  heart — this  desolation  of 
mine  —  but  do  not  doubt  that  I  have  loved  thee — that  I  shall 
ever — " 

"  Stay  !"  commanded  the  imperious  father. 

"What  is  it  thou  wouldst  say,  Francesca  1  Beware!"  was 
the  stern  language  of  the  mother. 

The  poor  girl  shrunk  back  in  trembling.  The  brief  impulse 
of  courage  which  the  address  of  her  lover,  and  the  evident  sym 
pathy  of  the  croud,  had  imparted,  was  gone  as  suddenly  as  it 
came.  She  had  no  more  strength  for  the  struggle ;  and  as  she 
snnk  back  ner\  eles.s,  and  closed  her  eyes  as  if  fainting  under  the 
terrible  glance  of  both  her  parents,  Giovanni  dropped  her  hand 
from  his  grasp.  It  now  lay  lifeless  at  her  side,  and  she  was 
sustained  from  falling  by  some  of  her  sympathizing  companions 
The  eyes  of  the  youth  were  bent  upon  her  with  a  last  look. 

"It  is  all  over,  then,"  he  exclaimed.  "Thy  hope,  unhappy 
maiden,  like  mine,  must  peri-h  because  of  thy  weakness.  Yet 
there  will  be  bitter  memories  for  this,"  he  exclaimed  —  and  his 


SEPARATION.  145 

eye  nov  sought  the  mother  — "  hitter,  hitter  memories  !  Fran- 
cesca,  farewell  !  He  happy  if  thou  canst !" 

She  rushed  toward  him  as  lie  moved  away,  recovering  all  her 
strength  for  this  one  etVort.  A  single  and  hroken  sentence  — 
"  Forgive  me,  ( )  forgive  !"  aped  her  lips,  as  she  sunk  seuse- 

1«  -  upon  the  floor.  He  would  have  raised  her,  hnt  they  did 
not  suffer  him. 

41  Is  this  not  enough,  Giovanni  ?"  said  his  friend,  reproachfully. 
'*  Seest  thou  not  that  thy  presence  but  distracts  her  ?" 

"  Thou  art  right,  Nicolo  ;  let  us  go.  I  am  myself  choking  — 
undo  ;ne  thU  collar!  —  There  !  Let  us  depart." 

The  organ  rolled  its  anthem  —  a  thousand  voices  joined  in 
the  hymn  to  the  Virgin,  and  as  the  sweet  but  painful  sounds 
rushed  to  the  senses  of  the  youth,  he  darted  through  the  crowd. 
closely  followed  by  his  friend.  The  music  seemed  to  pursue 
him  v.ith  mockery.  He  rushed  headlong  from  the  temple,  as 
if  seeking  escape  from  some  suffocating  atmosphere  in  the  pure 
breezes  of  heaven,  and  hurried  forward  with  confused  and 
purposeless  footsteps.  The  moment  of  his  disappearance  was 
marked  by  !he  partial  recovery  of  Francesca.  She  unclosed  her 
,  raised  her  head,  and  looked  wildly  around  her.  Her  lips 
once  more  murmured  his  name. 

11  Giovanni !" 

"  He  is  gone,"  was  the  sympathizing  answer  from  more  than 
one  lip  in  tl.c  assembly  ;  and  once  more  she  relapsed  into  un 
consciousness. 

CHAPTER    II. 

Giovanni  Gradeuigo  was  scarcely  more   conscious  than  the 
maiden  whom  he  left.    He  needed  all  the  guidance  of  his  friend. 
'   Whither  ?"  asked  Nicolo  Malapien-. 
"What  matter!   where  thou  wilt!"  was  the  reply. 
•  1     r  the  city,  thru;"   and   his  friend   conducted   him   to  « •• 
.ola    which   was    appointed    to    await    them.      In   the    pro 
foundest    silence    they    glided    toward    the    city.     The    gondola 
btupped    before    the    dwelling  «»f  Nir«»lo,  and  he,  taking  the  arm 
of  the  sullen  and  absent  (iinvanni  within    his   own,  ascended  the 
marble  steps,  and  was  ab'.nt  t«>  enter,  when  a  shrill  voice  chal 
lenged  their  attention  I  y  naming  Giovanni. 

7 


146  SOUTHWARD  nn  1 

"  How  now,  signor,"  said  the  stranger.  "  Is  it  thou  ?  Where- 
Ibre  hast  thou  left  Olivolo  ?  Why  didst  thou  not  wait  tht 
bridal  ?" 

The  speaker  was  a  strange,  dark-looking  woman,  in  coarse 
woollen  garments.  She  hobbled  as  she  walked,  assisted  by  a 
heavy  staff,  and  seemed  to  suffer  equally  from  lameness  and 
from  age.  Her  thin  depressed  lips,  that  ever  sunk  as  she 
spoke  into  the  cavity  of  her  mouth,  which,  in  the  process  of 
time,  had  been  denuded  of  nearly  all  its  teeth  ;  her  yellow 
wrinkled  visage,  and  thin  gray  hairs,  that  escaped  from  the 
close  black  cap  which  covered  her  head,  declared  the  presence 
of  very  great  age.  But  her  eye  shone  still  with  something  even 
more  lively  and  oppressive  than  a  youthful  fire.  It  had  a  sor' 
of  spiritual  intensity.  Nothing,  indeed,  could  have  been  mon 
brilliant,  or,  seemingly,  more  unnatural.  But  hers  was  a  nature 
of  which  we  may  not  judge  by  common  laws.  She  was  no  com 
mon  woman,  and  her  whole  life  was  characterized  by  mystery. 
She  was  known  in  Venice  as  the  "Spanish  Gipsy;'*  was  sup 
posed  to  be  secretly  a  Jewess,  and  had  only  escaped  from  hehij. 
punished  as  a  sorceress  by  her  profound  and  most  exemplary 
public  devotions.  But  she  was  known,  nevertheless,  as  an  en 
cliantress,  a  magician,  a  prophetess  ;  and  her  palmistry,  her 
magic,  her  symbols,  signs  and  talismans,  were  all  held  in  great 
repute  by  the  superstitious  and  the  youthful  of  the  ocean  city 
Giovanni  Gradenigo  himself,  obeying  the  popular  custom,  had 
consulted  her ;  and  now,  as  he  heard  her  voice,  he  raised  his 
eyes,  and  started  forward  with  the  impulse  of  one  who  sud 
denly  darts  from  under  the  griding  knife  of  the  assassin.  Before 
Nicolo  could  interfere,  he  had  leaped  down  the  steps,  and  darted 
to  the  quay  from  which  the  old  woman  was  about  to  step  into  a 
gondola.  She  awaited  his  coming  with  a  smile  of  peculiar 
meaning,  as  she  repeated  her  inquiry  :  — 

"  Why  are  not  you  at  Olivolo  ?" 

-He  answered  the  question  by  another,  grasping  her  wrist  vio 
lently  as  he  spoke. 

"Did  you  not  promise  that  she  should  wed  with  me  —  that 
nho  should  be  mine  —  mine  only?" 

"  Well,"  she  answered  calmly,  without  struggling  or  seeking 
to  extricate  her  arm  from  the  strong  hold  which  he  had  upon  it. 


THK  AUGURY  AND  WARNING.  147 

"  Well !  and  even  now  the  rites  are  in  progress  which  bind 
her  to  Ulric  Barberigo!" 

"  She  will  never  wed  Ulric  Barberigo,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 
•'  Why  left  you  Olivolo  1"  she  continued. 

"Could  I  remain  and  look  upon  these  hated  nuptials?  —  could 
I  be  patient  ami  see  her  driven  like  a  sheep  to  the  sacrifice?  I 
fled  from  the  spectacle,  as  if  the  knife  of  the  butcher  were 
already  in  my  own  heart." 

"  You  were  wrong ;  but  the  fates  have  spoken,  and  their  de 
crees  are  unchangeable.  I  tell  you  I  have  seen  your  bridal 
with  Francesca  Ziani.  No  I'lrio  weds  that  maiden.  She  is  re 
served  for  you  alone.  You  alone  will  interchange  with  her  tho 
final  vows  before  the  man  of  God.  But  hasten,  that  this  may  find 
early  consummation.  I  have  seen  other  things!  Hasten  —  but 
hasten  not  alone,  nor  without  your  armor !  A  sudden  and  terri- 
l.lc  danger  hangs  over  San  Pietro  di  Castella,  and  all  within  its 
unlks.  Gather  your  friends,  gather  your  retainers.  Put  on  the 
weapons  of  war  and  fly  thither  with  all  your  speed.  I  see  a  ter 
rible  vision,  even  now,  of  blood  and  struggle  !  I  behold  terrors 
that  frighten  even  me !  Your  friend  is  a  man  of  arms.  Let 
your  war-galleys  be  put  forth,  and  bid  them  steer  for  the  I. a 
gune  of  Caorlo.  There  will  you  win  France-i-a,  and  thenceforth 
shall  you  wear  her  —  you  only  —  so  long  as  it  may  be  allowed 
you  to  wear  any  human  joy  !" 

Her  voice,  look,  manner,  sudden  energy,  and  the  wild  fire  of 
her  eyes,  awakened  Giovanni  to  his  fulle>t  consriousnes>.  His 
friend  d»ew  nigh  —  they  would  have  conferred  together,  but  the 
woman  interrupted  them. 

Y'»u  would  deliberate,"  said  she,  "but  you  have  no  time  ! 
What  is  to  be  done  must  be  d<>ne  quickly.  It  seems  wild  to 
you,  and  strange,  and  idle,  what  I  tell  you,  hut  it  i>  neverthe- 
1>  fnie  ;  and  if  you  heed  me  not  now  hitter  will  lie  your  re 
pentance  hereafter.  You,  Giovanni,  will  depart  at  least.  Heed 
not  v()ur  friend  —  he  is  ton  cold  to  he  successful.  He  will  always 
be  safe,  and  do  well,  hut  he  will  do  nothing  further.  Away  !  if 
you  can  but  gather  a  do/.en  friends  and  man  a  single  galley,  you 
will  be  in  season.  But  the  time  is  short.  I  hear  a  fearful  cry 
— the  cry  of  women  —  and  the  feeble  shriek  of  Francesca  Ziani 
u  »;aong  the  voices  of  those  who  wail  with  a  new  terror !  I  see 


148  -MI  TH WARD    Ho  \ 

their  struggling  forms,  and  floating  garments,  and  dishevelled 
hair !  Fly,  young  men,  lest  the  names  of  those  whom  Venice 
has  written  in  her  Book  of  Gold  shall  henceforth  be  written  in  a 
Book  of  Blood." 

The  reputation  of  the  Rybil  was  too  great  in  Venice  to  allow 
her  wild  predictions  to  be  laughed  at.  Besides,  our  young  Ve 
netians —  Nicolo  no  less  than  Giovanni  —  in  spite  of  what  tin- 
woman  had  spoken  touching  his  lack  of  enthusiasm  —  were 
both  aroused  and  eagerly  excited  by  her  speech.  Her  person 
dilated  as  she  spoke  ;  her  voice  seemed  to  come  up  from  a  feur- 
ful  depth,  and  went  thrillingly  deep  into  the  souls  of  the  hear 
ers.  They  were  carried  from  their  feet  by  her  predictions. 
They  prepared  to  obey  her  counsels.  Soon  had  they  gathered 
their  friends  together,  enough  to  man  three  of  the  fastest  galleys 
of  the  city.  Their  prows  were  turned  at  once  toward  the  Lagune 
of  Caorlo,  whither  the  woman  had  directed  them.  She,  mean 
while,  had  disappeared,  but  the  course  of  her  gondola  lay  fo: 
Olivolo. 

CHAPTER     III. 

IT  will  be  necessary  that  we  should  go  back  in  our  narrative 
but  a  single  week  before  the  occurrence  of  these  events.  Let 
us  penetrate  the  dim  and  lonesome  abode  on  the  confines  of  the 
"Jewish  Quarter,"  but  not  within  it,  where  the  "  Spanish  (»ij»s\  ' 
delivered  her  predictions.  It  is  midnight,  and  still  she  sits  ovei 
her  incantations.  There  are  vessels  of  uncouth  shape  and  un 
known  character  before  her.  Huge  braziers  lie  convenient,  on 
one  of  which,  amid  a  few  coals,  a  reeble  flame  may  lie  seen  t.» 
struggle.  The  atmosphere  is  impregnated  with  a  strong  bu; 
not  ungrateful  perfume,  and  through  its  vapors  objects  appear 
with  some  indistinctness.  A  circular  plate  of  brass  or  copper  — 
it  could  not  well  be  any  more  precious  metal  —  rests  beneath 
the  eye  and  finger  of  the  woman.  It  is  covered  with  strange 
and  mystic  rharacte.rs,  which  she  seoms  busily  to  explore,  as  if 
they  had  a  real  significance  to  her  mind.  She  evidently  united 
the.  highest  departments  of  her  art  with  its  humblest  offices  ;  and 
possessed  those  nobler  aspirations  of  the  soul,  which,  during  the 
middle  ages,  elevated  in  considerable  decree  the  professor*  of 
necromancy.  But  our  purpose  is  not  now  to  determine  her  pro 


THK    MY>TI-:iilM(X    VISITKK.  149 

tensions.     Wo   have    l.ut   to   exhibit   and   to  ascertain   a  small 
iip«  11  ot'  her  skill  in  the  vulgar  business  of  fortune-telling  — 
an  art    which    will    continue   to    be   received   among  men,  to   a 
greater   or  le<s  extent,  so   long  as   they  shall   possess  a  hope 
which  they  cm i   not    gratify,  and    feel  a  superstition  which    they 
•  an  not  expbin.     Our  gipsy  ex]>ects  a  visitor.     She  hears  his 
-tep.     The  door  opens  at  her  bidding,  and  a  stranger  makes 
his  appearance.      He  is  a  tall  and  well-made  man,  of  stern  and 
;ny  countenance,  which  is  half  concealed  beneath  the  raised 
foMingB  of  his  cloak.      His  heard,  of  enormous  length,  is  seen  to 
Lin  down  upon  his  breast  ;   but  his  cheek  is  youthful,  and  his 
BJC   is  eagerly  and    anxiously  bright.     But   for  a  certain  repel- 
:iiiL:  something  in   his  glance,  he  might  be  considered  a  very 
handsome  man  — perhaps  by  many  persons  he  was  thought  so. 
ulvanced  with  an  air  of  dignity  and  power.     His  deportment 
and  manner — and,  when   he  spoke,  his  voice  —  all  seemed  to 
denote  a  person  accustomed  to  command.     The  woman  did  not 
look  up  as  he  approached  :  on  the  contrary,  ^he   seemed   more 
inter.t  than  ever  in  the  examination  of  the  strange  characters  be 
fore  her.      Hut  a  curious  spectator  might  have  seen  that  a  corner 
of  her  eye,  bright  with  an  intelligence  that  looked  more  like  cun 
ning  than  wisdom,  was  suffered  to  take  in  all  of  the  face  and  per 
son  of  the  visiter  that  his  muffling  costume  permitted  to  be  seen. 

"Mother,"  said  the  stranger,  "I  am  here." 

"  You  say  not  who  you  are,'   answered  the  woman. 

"Nor  shall  say,"  was  the  abrupt  reply  of  the  stranger. 
"That.  \ou  said,  was  unnecessary  to  your  art  —  to  the  solution 
of  the  ijuestions  that  I  asked  yon." 

"  Suivly,"  was  the  answer.  "  My  art,  that  promises  to  tell 
th.-e  of  the  future,  \\ould  be  a  sorry  fraud  could  it  not  declare 
the  pre*ent —  could  it  not  say  who  thou  art,  as  well  as  what 
thou  seeke-t. 

"Ha1    and   thou    kimwest!"   exclaimed  the   other,  his    hand 
suddenly  feeling  within  the  folds  of  his  cloak  as  he  spoke,  a 
for  a  weapon,  while    his    ,-\e    -hired    ijuiekly  around    the  apart 
ment,  as  if  seeking  for  a  secret  enemy. 

v,  fear  nothing."  said  the  woman,  ''ahily.  "  1  can-  not 
to  know  who  thou  art.  It  is  not  an  object  of  mv  ijue.st,  other 
wise  it  woul  1  not  long  remain  a  secret  to  me" 


150  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

•'  It  is  well !  mine  is  a  name  that  must  not  be  spoken  among 
the  homes  of  Venice.  It  would  make  thee  thyself  to  quail 
couldst  thou  hear  it  spoken." 

"  Perhaps !  but  mine  is  not  the  heart  to  quail  at  many  things, 
unless  it  be  the  absolute  wrath  of  Heaven.     What  the  violence 
or  the  hate  of  man  could  do  to  this  feeble  frame,  short  of  death, 
it  has  already  suffered.     Thou  knowest  but  little  of  human  cru 
elty,  young  man,  though  thy  own  deeds  be  cruel." 

"  How  knowest  thou  that  my  deeds  are  cruel  ?"  was  tin* 
quick  and  passionate  demand,  while  the  form  of  the  stranger 
suddenly  and  threateningly  advanced.  The  woman  was  un 
moved. 

"  Saidst  thou  not  that  there  was  a  name  that  might  not  bo 
spoken  in  the  homes  of  Venice  ?  Why  should  thy  very  name 
make  the  hearts  of  Venice  to  quail  unless  for  thy  deeds  of  cru 
elty  and  crime  1  But  I  see  further.  I  see  it  in  thine  eyes  that 
thou  art  cruel.  I  hoar  it  in  thy  voice  that  thou  art  criminal.  I 
know,  even  now,  that  thy  soul  is  bent  on  deeds  of  violence  and 
blood  ;  and  the  very  quest  that  brings  thee  to  me  now  is  less 
the  quest  of  love  than  of  that  wild  and  selfish  passion  which  so 
frequently  puts  on  its  habit." 

"  Ha  !  speak  to  me  of  that !  This  damsel,  Francesca  Ziani ! 
'Tis  of  her  that  I  would  have  thee  speak.  Thou  saidst  that 
she  should  be  mine ;  yet  lo  !  her  name  is  written  in  the  '  Book 
of  Gold,'  and  she  is  allotted  to  this  man  of  wealth,  this  Ulric 
Barberigo." 

"  She  will  never  be  the  wife  of  Ulric  Barberigo." 

"  Thou  saidst  she  should  be  mine." 

"  Nay,  I  said  not  that." 

•   Ha!  —  but  thou  liest !" 

"  No !  Anger  me  not,  young  man !  I  am  slower,  much 
slower  to  anger  than  thyself — slower  than  most  of  those  win: 
still  chafe  within  this  mortal  covering — yet  am  I  mortal  like 
thyself',  and  not  wholly  free  from  such  foolish  passions  as  vex 
mortality.  Chafe  me,  and  I  will  repulse  thee  with  scorn.  An 
noy  me,  and  I  close  upon  thee  the  book  of  fate,  leaving  thec 
to  the  blind  paths  which  thy  passions  have  ever  moved  thee  to 
take." 

The  stranger  muttered  something  apologetically. 


THE    MACK      MIKHOR.  161 

"  Make  me  no  excuses.  I  only  ask  thee  to  forbear  and  sub 
mit.  I  said  nut  that  Francesca  Ziani  .should  he  thine  !  I  said 
only  that  I  beheld  her  in  thy  arm-." 

'*  And  what  more  do  I  ask !"  was  tin-  exulthig  speech  of  the 
stranger,  his  voice  rising  into  a  sort  of  outburst,  which  fully 
declared  the  ruffian,  and  the  cruel  passions  by  which  he  was 
g  iverned. 

"If  that  contents  thee,  well !"  said  the  woman,  coldly,  her 
eye  perusing  with  a  seeming  calmness  the  brazen  plate  upon 
which  the  strange  characters  were  inscribed. 

"That,  then,  tlmu  pmmisost  still?"  demanded  the  stranger. 

"  Thou  shalt  see  for  thyself,"  was  the  reply.  Thus  speaking 
the  woman  slowly  arose  and  brought  forth  a  small  chafing-dish, 
also  of  brass  or  copper,  not  much  larger  than  a  common  plate. 
This  she  placed  over  the  brazier,  the  flame  of  which  she  quick 
ened  hv  a  few  smart  pufls  from  a  little  bellows  which  lay  beside 
her.  As  the  flame  kindled,  and  the  sharp,  red  jets  rose  like 
tongues  on  either  side  of  the  plate,  she  poured  into  it  some 
thing  like  a  gill  of  a  thick,  tenacious  liquid,  that  looked  like,  and 
might  have  been,  honey.  Above  this  she  brooded  for  a  while 
with  her  eyes  immediately  over  the  vessel ;  and  the  keen  ear 
of  the  >tranger,  quickened  by  exciied  curiosity,  could  detect  the 
muttering  of  her  lips  ;  though  the  foreign  syllables  which  she 
employed  were  entirely  beyond  his  comprehension.  Suddenly, 
a  thick  vapor  went  up  from  the  dish.  She  withdrew  it  from  the 
brazier  and  laid  it  before  her  on  the  table.  A  few  moments 
sufficed  to  clear  the  surface  of  the  vessel,  the  vapor  arising  and 
hanging  languidly  above  her  head. 

k  now  for  thyself  and  see!"  washer  command  to  the 
visiter  ;  she  her>elf  not  deigning  a  glance  upon  the  vessel,  seem 
ing  thus  to  be  quite  sure  of  what  it  would  present,  or  quite  indif 
ferent  to  the  result.  The  .stranger  needed  no  second  summons. 
lie  bent  instantly  over  the  vessel,  and  started  back  with  undis 
guised  delight. 

It  is  she!"  he  exclaimed.  "  She  droops !  whose  arm  is  it 
that  supports  her-  upon  whose  breast  is  it  that  she  lies  —  whc 
bears  her  away  in  triumph  '" 

"  lb  it  not  thyself?"  asked  the  woman,  coldly. 

"By   Hercules,  it  is'     She  is  mine!     ^ :e  is   in  my  arms! 


152  SOUTHWARD    110  ! 

She  is  on  my  bosom  !  I  have  her  in  my  galley  !  She  speeds 
with  me  to  my  home  !  I  see  it  all,  even  as  thou  hast  promised 
me!" 

"  I  promise  thee  nothing.  I  but  show  thee  only  what  is 
written." 

"  And  -when  and  how  shall  this  be  effected  ?" 

"  How,  I  know  not,"  answered  the  woman  ;  "  this  is  withheld 
from  me.  Fate  shows  what  her  work  is,  only  as  it  appears  when 
done,  but  not  the  manner  of  the  doing." 

"  But  when  will  this  be  ?"  was  the  question. 

"  It  must  be  ere  she  marries  with  Ulric  Barberigo,  for  him 
she  will  never  marry." 

"  And  it  is  appointed  that  he  weds  with  her  on  the  day  of  St. 
Mary's  Eve.  That  is  but  a  week  hence,  and  the  ceremony 
takes  place — " 

"  At  Olivolo." 

"  Ha  !  at  Olivolo  !"  and  a  bright  gleam  of  intelligence  passed 
over  the  features  of  the  stranger,  from  which  his  cloak  had  by 
this  time  entirely  fallen.  The  woman  beheld  the  look,  and  a 
slight  smile,  that  seemed  to  denote  scorn  rather  than  any  other 
emotion,  played  for  a  moment  over  her  shrivelled  and  sunken  lips. 

"  Mother,"  said  the  stranger,  "  must  all  these  matters  be  left 
to  later 

"  That,  is  as  thou  wilt." 

"  But  the  eye  of  a  young  woman  may  be  won — her  heart 
may  be  touched  —  so  that  it  shall  be  easy  for  fate  to  accomplish 
her  designs.  I  am  young ;  am  indifferently  well-fashioned  in 
person,  and  have  but  little  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  the  face 
which  (io<l  lias  given  mo.  Beside,  I  have  much  skill  in  music, 
and  can  sing  to  the  guitar  as  fairly  as  most  of  the  young  mm 
'•f  Venice.  What  if  I  were  to  find  my  way  to  the  damsel  — 
what  it'  1  play  and  sing  beneath  her  father's  palace?  I  havo 
ii-es.  and  am  wont  to  practice  in  various  garments:  I  can — '' 

The  woman  interrupted  him. 

"  Thou  mayst  do  as  thou  wilt.  It  is  doubtless  as  indifferent 
to  the  fates,  what  thou  doest,  as  it  will  be  to  me.  Thou  hast 
.seen  what  I  have  .shown — 1  can  no  more.  1  am  not  permitted 
to  counsel  thee.  I  am  but  a  voice ;  thou  hast  all  that  I  can 
give  thee." 


THE    DECREE    OF    FATE.  158 

The  stranger  linger*-.!  still.  but  the  woman  ceased  to  speak, 
and  betrayed  by  her  maiu..-r  that  she  desired  his  departure. 
Thus  seeing,  he  took  a  purse  from  his  bosom  and  laid  it  before 
her.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  action,  nor  did  she  again 
look  up  until  he  was  gone.  With  the  sound  of  his  retreating 
footsteps,  she  put  aside  the  brazen  volume  of  strange  characters 
which  seemed  her  favorite  study,  and  her  lips  slowly  parted  in 
soliloquy :  — 

11  Ay  !  thoti  exultest,  fierce  ruffian  that  thou  art,  in  the  assu 
rance  that  Fate  yields  herself  to  thy  will  !  Thou  shalt,  indeed, 
hare  the  maiden  in  thy  arms,  but  it  shall  profit  thee  nothing; 
and  that  single  triumph  shall  exact  from  thee  the  last  penalties 
which  are  sure  to  follow  on  the  footsteps  of  a  trade  like  thine.. 
Thou  thickest  that  I  know  thee  not.  as  if  thy  shallow  masking 
could  baffle  eyes  and  art  like  mine;  but  I  had  not  shown  thee 
thus  much,  were  I  not  in  possession  of  yet  further  knowledge  — 
did  1  not  see  that  this  lure  was  essential  to  embolden  thee  to  thy 
own  final  overthrow.  Alas,  that  in  serving  the  cause  of  inno 
cence,  in  saving  the  innocent  from  harm,  we  can  not  make  it 
safe  in  happiness.  Poor  Francesca !  beloved  of  three,  yet  blest 
with  neither.  Thou  shalt  be  wedded,  yet  be  no  bride  ;  shall 
gain  all  that  thy  fond  young  heart  craveth,  yet  gain  nothing  — 
be  spared  the  embraces  of  him  thou  loatheat,  yet  rest  in  his 
arms  whom  thou  hast  most  need  to  fear;  and  shalt  be  denied, 
even  when  most  assured,  the  only  embrace  which  might  bring 
thee  blessing!  Happy  at  leant  that  thy  sorrows  shall  not  last 
tin-*-  l"iig —  their  verv  keenness  and  intensity  being  thy  security 
from  the  misery  which  holds  through  years  like  mine." 

Let  us  leave  the  woman  of  mystery  —  let  us  once  more 
change  the  scene.  Now  pass  we  to  the  pirate's  domain  at  Istria. 
a  region  over  which,  at  the  period  of  our  narrative,  the  control 
of  Venicr  •••liiigly  capricious,  and  subject  to  fre 

quent  vicissitude^.      At  this  particular  time,  the  place  was  main 
tained    by   the    fiercest    band  of    pirates  that   ever  swept    the 
Mediterranean  with  their  bloody 


154  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 


CHAPTER     IV. 

IT  was  midnight  when  the  galley  of  the  chief  glided  into  the 
harbor  of  Istria.  Tl  e  challenge  of  the  sentinel  was  answered 
from  the  vessel,  and  she  took  her  place  beside  the  shore,  where 
two  other  galleys  were  at  anchor.  Suddenly  her  sails  descended 
with  a  rattle  ;  a  voice  hailed  throughout  the  ship,  was  answered 
from  stem  to  stern,  and  a  deep  silence  followed.  The  fierce 
chief  of  the  pirates,  Pietro  Barbaro  —  the  fiercest,  strongest, 
wisest,  yet  youngest,  of  seven  brothers,  all  devoted  to  the  same 
fearful  employment — strode  in  silence  to  his  cabin.  Here, 
throwing  himself  upon  a  couch,  he  prepared  rather  to  rest  his 
limbs  than  to  sleep.  He  had  thoughts  to  keep  him  wakeful. 
Wild  hopes,  and  tenderer  joys  than  his  usual  occupations  offered, 
were  gleaming  before  his  fancy.  The  light  burned  dimly  in  his 
floating  chamber,  but  the  shapes  of  his  imagination  rose  up  before 
his  mind's  eye  not  the  less  vividly  because  of  the  obscurity  in 
whicli  lie  lay.  Thus  musing  over  expectations  of  most  agreej- 
alilc  and  exciting  aspect,  he  finally  lapsed  away  in  sleep. 

He  was  suddenly  aroused  from  slumber  by  a  rude  hand  tlmt 
lay  heavily  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  he  asked  of  the  intruder. 

"  Gamba,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Thou,  brother?" 

"  Ay,"  continued  the  intruder,  "  and  here  are  all  of  us." 

"Indeed!  and  wherefore  come  you?  I  would  sleep — 1  am 
weary.  I  must  have  rest." 

"  Thou  hast  too  much  rest,  Pietro,"  said  another  of  the  broth 
ers.  "It  is  that  of  which  we  complain  —  that  of  which  we 
would  speak  to  thee  now." 

"Ha!  this  is  new  language,  brethren!  Answer  me  —  per 
haps  I  am  not  w.-ll  awake  —  am  I  your  captain,  or  not?" 

"Thou  art — the  fact  seems  to  be  forgotten  by  no  one  but 
thyself.  Though  the  youngest  of  our  mother's  children,  we 
made  thee  our  leader." 

"  For  what  did  ye  this,  my  brothers,  unless  that  I  might  com 
mand  ye  ?" 

"  For  this,  in   truth,  and  this  only,  did  we  confer  upon  thee 


THE    PIRATE    COrNCIL.  155- 

this    authority.      Thou   hadst    shown    thyself   worthy  to    com 
mand — " 
"Well1" 

"Thy  skill— thy  courage  — thy  fortitude.—" 
44  In  brief,  ye  thought  me  best  fitted  to  command  ye  ?" 

-  V 

Then  I  command  ye  hence  !     Leave  me,  and  let  me  rest!" 
"Nay,  brother,  but   this  can   not   lie."  was  the  reply  of  an 
other  of  the   intruders.     "We  mnst  speak  with  thee  while  the 
nii:ht   serves  u<.  lext  thou  hear  worse,  tinners  with  the  morrow. 
Thou  art,  indeed,  our  captain  ;    chosen   because  of  thy  qualities 
of  service,  t"  c"iiduct   and   counsel   us;  but  we  chose  thee  not 
that  thou  shouldst   sleep  !      Thou    wert    chosen    that  our   enter 
prises  might  be  active  and  mi^ht  lead  to  frequent  profit." 
"  Has  it  not  been  so  ?"  demanded  the  chief. 
"  For  a  season  it  was  so,  and  there   was  no   complaint  of 

"  Who  now  complains  ?" 

•  Thy  people  — all!" 

"And  can  ye  not  answer  them  ?" 

"  No  !  for  we  ourselves  need  an  answer !    We.  too,  complain." 

"  Of  what  complain  ye  ?" 

*  That  our  enterprises  profit  us  nothing.' 

"  I  •  <>t  go  forth  in  the  ^alleys  ?  Lead  ye  not,  each  of 

you,  an  armed  galley  ?  Why  is  it  that  your  enterprises  profit 
ye  nothing?" 

"  Because  of  the  lack  of  our  captain." 

••  And  ye  can  do  nothing  without  me;  and  because  ye  are  in 
capable,  I  must  have  no  leisure  tor  myself!" 

"Nay,  something  more  than  this,  Pietro.  Our  enterprises 
avail  us  nothing,  since  you  command  that  we  no  longer  trouble 
the  i  t  Venice.  Venice  has  become  thy  favorite.  Thou 

shielded  her  only,  when  it  is  her  merchants  only  who  should 
give  us  spoil.  This,  brother,  is  thy  true  offence.  For  this  wo 
complain  of  thee;  for  this  thy  people  complain  of  thee.  They 
are  impoverished  by  thy  new-born  love  for  Venice,  and  they  arc 
anirry  with  thee.  Brother,  their  purpose  is  to  depose  thee." 

"  H a  !  and  ye—' 

"We  are  men  as  well  as  brethn  u.     We  cherish  no  gmh  ai- 


1,36 

tachment  for  Venice  as  that  which  seems  to  fill  thy  bosom. 
When  the  question  shall  be  taken  in  regard  to  thy  office,  our 
voices  shall  be  against  thee,  unless — " 

There  was  a  pause.     It  was  broken  by  the  chief. 

"  Well,  speak  out.     What  are  your  conditions  ?" 

"  Unless  thou  shalt  consent  to  lead  us  on  a  great  enterprise 
against  the  Venetians.  Hearken  to  us,  Brother  Pietro.  Thou 
knowest  of  the  annual  festival  at  Olivolo,  when  the  marriage 
takes  place  of  all  those  maidens  whose  families  are  favorites  of 
the  Signiory,  and  whose  names  are  written  in  the  '  Book  of  Gold' 
of  the  Republic." 

The  eyes  of  the  pirate  chief  involuntarily  closed  at  the  sug 
gestion,  but  his  head  nodded  affirmatively.  The  speaker  con 
tinued. 

"  It  is  now  but  a  week  when  this  festival  takes  place.  On 
this  occasion  assemble  the  great,  the  noble,  and  the  wealthy  of 
the  sea  city.  Thither  they  bring  all  that  is  gorgeous  in  their 
apparel,  all  that  is  precious  among  their  ornaments  and  decora 
tions.  Nobility  and  wealth  here  strive  together  which  shall 
most  gloriously  display  itself.  Here,  too,  is  the  beauty  of  the 
city  —  the  virgins  of  Venice  —  the  very  choice  among  her  flocks 
Could  there  be  prize  more  fortunate  ?  Could  there  be  prizu 
more  easy  of  attainment  ?  The  church  of  San  Pietro  di  Castella 
permits  no  armed  men  within  its  holy  sanctuaries.  There  are 
no  apprehensions  of  peril;  the  people  who  gather  to  the  rites 
are  wholly  weaponless.  They  can  offer  no  defence  against  <>ur 
assault ;  nor  can  this  be  foreseen.  What  place  more  lonely  than 
Olivolo?  Thither  shall  we  repair  the  day  before  the  festival, 
and  shelter  ourselves  from  scrutiny.  At  the  moment  when  the 
crowd  is  greatest,  we  will  dart  upon  our  prey.  We  lack  women ; 
we  desire  wealth.  Shall  we  fail  in  either,  when  we  have  in  re 
membrance  the  bold  deeds  of  our  ancient  fathers,  when  they 
looked  with  yearning  on  the  fresh  beauties  of  the  Sabine  vir 
gin-  '  These  Venetian  beauties  are  our  Sabines.  Thou,  too  —  if 
the  bruit  of  thy  followers  doth  thee  no  injustice — thou,  too,  hast 
been  overcome  by  one  of  these.  She  will  doubtless  l>e  present 
at  this  festival.  Make  her  thine,  and  fear  n«>t  that  each  of  thy 
brethren  will  do  justice  to  his  tastes  and  thine  own.  Here,  now, 
thou  hast  all.  Either  thou  agrees!  to  that  which  thy  people  de- 


PIUATK    ITK!  157 

mwid,  <>r  the  power  departs  from  thy  keeping.     Fabio  become 


o;ir  leader  !" 

There  wa?  a  pause.  At  length  the  pirate-chief  addressed  his 
brethren.  • 

44  Ye  have  spoken  .  ye  threaten,  too!  This  power  of  which 
yo  speak,  is  precious  in  your  eyes.  I  value  it  not  a  /ecchino; 
and  wort  thoti  to  depose  me  to-morrow,  I  should  be  the  master 
of  ye  in  another  month,  did  it  please  me  to  command  a  people 
no  capricious.  Hut  think  not,  though  I  speak  to  ye  in  this  fa>h- 
ion,  that  I  deny  your  demand.  I  hot  speak  thus  to  show  ye  that 
1  fear  ye  not.  I  will  do  as  ye  desire  ;  but  did  not  your  own 
wishes  square,  evenly  with  mine  own,  I  should  bide  the  issue  of 
this  strij«ri:le.  though  it  were  with  knife  to  knife." 

"  It  matters  not  how  thou  feelest,  or  what  inoveth  tliee,  Pietro, 
*o  that  thou  dost  as  we  demand.  Thou  wilt  lead  us  to  this 
spoil  r 

•   I  will." 

"It  is  enough.  It  will  prove  to  thy  people  that  they  ai-e 
htil!  tbo  masters  of  the  Lagune  —  that  they  are  not  sold  to 
Venice." 

44  Leave  me  now." 

The  brethren  took  their  departure.  When  they  had  gone, 
tho  chief  spoke  in  brief  soliloquy,  thus  :  — 

Vfrilv.  tli   re  is  the  hand  of  fate  in  this.    Methinks  I  see  th^ 
history  once  v.  i  as  I  beheld  it  in  the  majric  liquor  of  the 

Spani-h  (r:j»sy.  Why  thought  I  not  of  this  before,  dreaming 
vjiinly  like  an  idiot  boy,  as  much  in  love  with  his  music  as  him 
nolf.  who  hopes  by  the  tinkle  of  his  guitar  to  win  hia  beauty 
fr<  m  tlie  palace  nf  her  noble  sire,  to  the  obscure  retreat*  of  his 
gondola  !  These  brethren  shall  not  vex  me.  They  are  but  the 
creatures  of  my  fate!" 

CHAPTER    V. 

LBT  us  now  return  to  Oliv.do,  to  the  altar-place  of  the  church 
of  San  1'ietro  di  Castella,  and  resume  the  progress  of  that 
strangely-mingled  ceremonial  —  mixed  sunshine  and  sadness  — 
which  was  broken  by  the  passionate  conduct  of  (iiovanni  Gra- 
denigo.  We  left  th  ^  |>»<»r,  crushed  Franct-Ta.  in  a  state  of  uu 


158  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

consciousness,  in  the  arms  of  her  sympathizing  kindred.  For  a 
brief  space  the  impression  was  a  painful  one  upon  tho  hearts  of 
the  vast  assembly ;  but  as  the  deep  organ  rolled  its  ascending 
anthems,  the  emotion  subsided.  The  people  had  assembled  foi 
pleasure  and  an  agreeable  spectacle ;  and  though  sympathizing, 
for  a  moment,  with  the  pathetic  fortunes  of  the  sundered  lovers, 
quite  as  earnestly  as  it  is  possible  for  mere  lookers-on  to  do,  they 
were  not  to  be  disappointed  in  the  objects  for  which  they  came 
The  various  shows  of  the  assemblage — the  dresses,  the  jewels, 
the  dignitaries,  and  the  beauties  —  were  quite  enough  to  divert 
the  feelings  of  a  populace,  at  all  times  notorious  for  its  levities, 
from  a  scene  which,  however  impressive  at  first,  was  becoming 
a  little  tedious.  Sympathies  are  very  good  and  proper  things ; 
but  the  world  seldom  suffers  them  to  occupy  too  much  of  ite 
lime.  Our  Venetians  did  not  pretend  to  be  any  more  humane 
than  the  rest  of  the  great  family  ;  and  the  moment  that  Fran 
cesca  had  fainted,  and  Giovanni  had  disappeared,  the  multitude 
began  to  express  their  impatience  of  any  further  delay  by  all  the 
means  in  their  possession.  There  was  no  longer  a  motive  to  re 
sist  their  desires,  and  simply  reserving  the  fate  of  the  poor  Fran 
cesca  to  the  last,  or  until  she  should  sufficiently  recover  to  be 
fully  conscious  of  the  sacrifice  which  she  was  about  to  make,  the 
ceremonies  were  begun.  There  was  a  political  part  to  be  played 
by  the  doge,  in  which  the  people  took  particular  interest;  an<! 
to  behold  which,  indeed,  was  the  strongest  reason  of  their  impa 
tience.  The  government  of  Venice,  as  was  remarked  by  quaint 
and  witty  James  Howell,  was  a  compound  thing,  mixed  of  all 
kinds  of  governments,  and  might  be  said  to  be  composed  of  tf» 
grain  of  monarchy,  a  dose  of  democracy,  and  a  dram,  if  not  AH 
ounce  of  optimacy."  It  was  in  regard  to  this  dose  of  democracy 
that  the  government  annually  assigned  marriage  portions  to 
twelve  younj*  maidens,  selected  from  the  great  body  of  the  peo 
ple,  of  those  not  sufficiently  opulent  to  secure  husbands,  or  find 
the  adequate  means  for  marriage,  without  this  help.  To  bestow 
these  maidens  upon  their  lovers,  and  with  them  the  portions 
allotted  by  the  state,  constituted  the  first,  and  in  the  eyes  of  the 
masses,  the  most  agreeable  part  of  the  spectacle.  The  doge, 
on  this  occasion,  who  was  the  thrice-renowned  Pietro  Candiano, 
"  did  his  spiriting  gently,"  and  in  a  highly  edifying  manner 


A\D  -mum!:.  159 

bishop  best.,\ved  his  blessings,  ami  confirmed  by  the  reli- 
g'ous,  the  civil  rites,  which  allied  the  chosen  couples.      To  the«-e 
tlu>  voluntnr  if  \\e  may  thus  presume  upon  a 

•  lutinction  between  the  t\v.»  dMlMy  wliicli  we  are  yet  not  siuo 
that  we  have  a  right  to  make.  The  high-born  and  the  wealthy, 
couple  after  couple,  now  approached  the  altar,  to  receive  tin1, 
linal  benediction  whicli  committed  them  to  hopes  of  happiness 
vhieh  it  is  not  iu  the  pou  rr  of  any  priesthood  to  compel.  No 
d»ubt  there  was  a  great  deal  of  hope  aiming  the  parties,  and 
we  have  certa'mlv  no  reason  to  .suppose  that  happiness  did  not 
fi>llow  in  every  instance. 

But  there  i-  nicest- a  Ziani.      It  is  now  her  turn.     Her 

cruel  parents  remain  unsubdued  and  unsoftened  hy  lier  <leep  and 
touching  sorrows.  She  is  made  to  rise,  to  totter  forward  to  the 
altar,  scarcely  conscious  of  anything,  except,  perhaps,  that  the 
worthless,  but  wealthy,  Ulric  Barberigo  is  at  her  side.  Once 
more  the  mournful  spectacle  restores  to  the  spectators  all  their 
better  feelings.  They  perceive,  they  feel  the  cnielty  of  that  sac 
rifice  to  which  her  kindred  are  insensible.  In  vain  do  they 
murmur  "  shame  !"  In  vain  does  she  turn  her  vacant,  wild,  but 
still  expressive  eyes,  expressive  because  of  their  very  soulless 
vacancy,  to  that  stern,  ambitious  mother,  whose  bosom  no  longer 
responds  to  her  child  with  the  true  maternal  feeling.  Hopeless 
of  help  from  that  quarter,  she  lifts  her  eyes  to  heaven,  and,  no 
longer  listening  to  the  words  of  the  holy  man,  she  surrenders 
If  only  to  despair. 

Is  it  Heaven  that  hearkens  to  her  prayer?  Is  it  the  benevo 
lent  office  of  an  angel  that  hur>ts  the  doors  of  the  church  nt  the 
very  moment  when  she  is  called  upon  to  yield  that 
which  dooms  her  to  misery  for  ever  ?  To  her  ears,  the  thunders 
wh'u'n  now  shake  the  church  \\.-re  the  fruits  of  Heaven's  benig 
nant  interposition.  The  shrieks  of  women  on  every  band  —  tho 
oaths  and  shouts  of  tierce  and  insolent  authority  —  the  clamors  of 
men  —  the  struggles  and  cries  of  those  who  seek  safety  in  flight, 
or  entreat  for  mercy  —  suggest  no  other  idea  to  the  wretched  Fran- 
cesca,  than  that  she  is  saved  from  the  embraces  of  Ulric  Barbe 
rigo.  She  is  only  eonsciou>  that,  heedless  of  her,  and  of  tho 
entreaties  of  her  mother,  be  is  the  fir>t  to  endeavor  selfishly  to 
save  himself  by  flight.  But  her  escape  from  Barberigo  is  only 


160  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

the  prelude  to  other  embraces.  She  knows  not,  unhappy  child, 
that  she  is  an  object  of  desire  to  another,  until  she  finds  horsc-lf 
lifted  in  the  grasp  of  Pietro  Barbaro,  the  terrible  chief  of  the  Is- 
triote  pirate?.  He  and  his  brothers  have  kept  their  pledges  l.» 
one  another,  and  they  have  been  successful  in  their  proy.  Their 
fierce  followers  have  subdued  to  submission  the  struggles  of  a 
weaponless  multitude,  who,  with  horror  and  consternation,  behold 
the  loveliest  of  iheir  virgins,  the  just  wedded  among  them,  borne 
away  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  pirates  to  their  warlike  galleys. 
Those  who  resist  them  perish.  Resistance  was  hopeless.  Tho 
fainting  and  shrieking  women,  like  the  Sahine  damsels,  are  hur 
ried  from  the  sight  of  their  kinsmen  and  their  lovers,  and  the 
Istriote  galleys  are  about  to  depart  with  their  precious  freight. 
1  Metro  Harharo,  the  chief,  stands  with  one  foot  upon  his  vessel's 
side  and  the  other  on  the  shore.  Still  insensible,  the  lovely 
Francesca  lies  upon  his  breast.  At  this  moment  the  skirt  of  his 
cloak  is  plucked  by  a  bold  hand.  He  turns  to  meet  the  glance 
of  the  Spanish  Gipsy.  The  old  woman  leered  on  him  with 
eyes  that  seemed  to  mock  his  triumph,  even  while  she  appealed 
to  it. 

"  Is  it  not  even  as  I  told  thee  —  as  I  showed  thee  V  was  her 
demand. 

"  It  is !"  exclaimed  the  pirate-chief,  as  he  flung  her  a  purse 
of  gold.  "  Thou  art  a  true  prophetess.  Fate  has  done  her 
work  !" 

He  was  gone ;  his  galley  was  already  on  the  deep,  and  he 
himself  might  now  be  seen  kneeling  upon  the  deck  of  the  ves 
sel,  beading  over  his  precious  conquest,  and  striving  to  bring 
back  the  life  into  her  cheeks. 

"Ay,  indeed!"  muttered  the  Spanish  Gipsy,  "thou  hast  had 
her  in  thy  arms,  but  think  not,  reckless  robber  that  thou  art, 
that  fate  has  ///////•  its  work.  The  work  is  but  brgun.  Fate  has 
kept  its  word  to  thee  ;  it  is  thy  weak  sense  that  fancied  she  had 
nothing  more  to  say  or  do !" 

Kven  as  she  spoke  these  words,  the  galleys  of  Giovanni 
Gradenigo  were  standing  for  the  Lagune  of  Caorlo.  He  had 
succeeded  in  collecting  a  gallant  band  of  cavaliers  who  tacitly 
yielded  him  the  command.  The  excitement  of  action  had 
served,  in  some  measure,  to  relieve  the  distress  under  which  he 


PURSlTi    Of   Tin:    i'ii;\  161 

suffered.  II.-  was  no  longer  tlio  lover,  but  the  man;  nor  the 
man  merely,  luit  the  leader  of  men.  (Jinvanni  was  endowed  for 
this  hy  nature.  Hi-  Vtlov  WU  known.  It  lia«l  been  tried  upon 
the  Turk.  Now  that  lie  was  per.-uaded  by  the  Spanish  Gips}', 
whom  all  believed  and  feared,  that  a  nameless  and  terrible  dan 
ger  overhung  his  l>el<>\  ed,  which  was  to  be  met  and  baffled  only 
by  the  course  he  was  pursuing,  his  whole  person  seemed  to  be 
informed  by  a  new  spirit.  The  youth,  his  companions,  wondered 
to  behold  the  change.  There  was  no  longer  a  dreaminess  and 
doubt  about  his  words  and  movements,  but  all  was  prompt,  en 
ergetic,  and  directly  to  the  purpose.  Giovanni  war.  now  the 
confident  and  strong  man.  Enough  for  him  that  there  was  dan 
Of  this  he  no  longer  entertained  a  i'ear.  AVhether  the 
i  -.nger  that  was  supposed  to  threaten  Francesca  was  still  sug- 
«  of  a  hope  —  as  the  prediction  of  the  Spanish  Gipsy 
». light  well  warrant  —  may  very  well  be  questioned.  It  was  in 
try  desperation  of  his  hope,  that  his  energies  became  at 
o..je  equally  well-ordered  and  intense.  He  prompted  to  their 
utmost  the  energies  of  others.  He  impelled  all  his  agencies  to 
their  best  exertions.  Oar  and  sail  were  busy  without  intermis- 
>i"U.  and  soon  the  efforts  of  the  pursuers  were  rewarded.  A  gon- 
u.da.  bearing  a  single  man,  drifted  along  their  path.  He  was  a 
tlVti  from  Olivolo,  who  gave  them  the  first  definite  idea  of 
the  f»r;.y  «.t' the  pirates.  His  tidings,  rendered  imperfect  by  his 
terrors,  were  still  enough  t«»  -"'id  the  pursuers  to  new  exertions. 
rWtune  favored  the  pursuit .  In  their  haste  the  pirate  galleys 
had  brci.mp  entangled  in  the  lagune.  The  keen  eye  of  Gio- 
•  arnii  was  the  first  to  discover  them.  First  one  hark,  and  then 
;;:>other,  h:>ve  in  sight,  and  sm-n  the  whole  piratical  fleet  \ 
n:ade  out,  as  they  urged  their  embarrassed  progress  through  tho 
intricacies  i.f  the  >halh>w  waters. 

•   t'ourage,  bold  hearts!''  cried  (Jiovanni  to  his  people;    "  they 
-hall   soon  be  upon   them.     Thev  can  not  now 

CM  ape  u>  !" 

The  eye  of  the  youthful  leader  brightened  with  the  expecta 
tion  of  the  strugg!  .  11'-  exulting  the 
stirngth  an.l  confidence  of  his  soul,  and  cheered  the  souls  of  all 
around  him.  The  sturdy  oarsmen  "gave  way"  with  renewed 
uffiu-t.-.  The  knights  prepared  their  weapon-  fur  the  conflict. 


1G2  SOUTHWARD  no! 


Giovanni  ^i^naU.'d  the  other  galleys  by  which  his  own  was  foi 
lowed. 

"  I  am  for  the  red  flag  of  Pietro  Barbaro  himself.  I  know  his 
banner.  Let  your  galleys  grapple  with  the  rest.  Cross  their 
path  —  prevent  their  flight,  and  bear  down  upon  the  strongest. 
Do  your  parts,  and  fear  not  but  wo.  shall  do  ours." 

With  these  brief  instructions,  our  captain  led  the  way  with  the 
Venetian  galleys.  The  conflict  was  at  hand.  It  came.  They 
drew  nigh  and  hailed  the  enemy.  The  parley  was  a  brief  one. 
The  pirates  could  hope  no  mercy,  and  they  asked  none.  But 
few  words,  accordingly,  were  exchanged  between  the  parties, 
and  these  were  not  words  of  peace. 

"  Yield  thee  to  the  mercy  of  St.  Mark  !"  was  the  stern  sum 
mons  of  Giovanni,  to  the  pirate-chief. 

"St.  Mark's  mercy  has  too  many  teeth!"  was  the  scornful 
reply  of  the  pirate.  "  The  worthy  saint  must  strike  well  before 
Barbaro  of  Istria  sues  to  him  for  mercy." 

With  the  answer  the  galleys  grappled.  The  Venetians  leape<l 
on  board  of  the  pirates,  with  a  fuiy  that  was  little  short  of  mad 
ness.  Their  wrath  was  terrible.  Under  the  guidance  of  the  fierce 
Giovanni,  they  smote  with  an  unforgiving  vengeance.  It  was 
in  vain  that  the  Istriotes  fought  as  they  had  been  long  accus 
tomed.  It  needed  something  more  than  customary  valor  to  meet 
the  fury  of  their  assailants.  All  of  them  perished.  Mercy  now 
was  neither  asked  nor  given.  Nor,  as  it  seemed,  did  the  pirates 
care  to  live,  when  they  beheld  the  fall  of  their  fearful  leader. 
He  had  crossed  weapons  with  Giovanni  Gradenigo,  in  wlr>m  h«i. 
found  his  fate.  Twice,  thrice,  the  sword  of  the  latter  drove 
through  the  breast  of  the  pirate.  Little  did  his  conqueror  conjec 
ture  the  import  of  the  few  words  which  the  dying  chief  gii-ped 
forth  at  his  feet,  his  glazed  eyes  striving  to  pierce  the  deck,  as 
if  seeking  some  one  within. 

"  I  have,  indeed,  had  thee  in  my  arms,  but  —  " 

There  was  no  more  —  death  finished  the  sentence  !  The  vic 
tory  was  complete,  but  Giovanni  was  wounded.  Pietro  Barbaro 
was  a  fearful  enemy.  He  was  conquered,  it  is  true,  but  he 
had  made  his  mark  upon  his  conqueror.  He  had  bitten  deep 
before  he  fell. 

The  victors  n-tun  e<l  with  their  spoil.     Tlioy  brought  back  tho 


LOVK    TIMl'MI'HAVr.  L68 

.Captured  brides  in  triumph.  Th;»t  same  evening  preparations 
were  made  t.>  conclude  the  bridal  ceremonies-  which  the  morning 
had  seen  so  fearfully  arrested.  With  a  single  exception,  tho 
original  distribution  of  the  "  brides"  was  persevered  in.  That 
exceptio?  may  w(>ll  suppose,  was  Fram-osca  Ziani.  It 

was  no  longer  possible  tor  hrr  unnatural  parents  to  withstand 
thr  popular  sentiment.  The  doge  himself,  ]  Metro  C'amliano, 
was  particularly  active  in  persuading  the  reluctant  mother  to 
submit  to  what  was  so  evidently  tho  will  of  destiny.  But  for 
tho  discreditable  baseness  and  cowardice  of  Ulric  Barbeiigo.it  is 
probable  she  never  would  have  yielded.  But  his  imbeeilitv  and 
unmanly  terror  in  the  moment  of  danger,  had  been  too  conspic 
uous.  Kven  his  enormous  wealth  could  not  save  him  from  the 
shame  that  followed  ;  and,  however  unwillingly,  the  parents  of 
Francesea  consented  that  she  should  become  the  bride  of  Gio 
vanni,  as  the  only  proper  reward  for  the  gallantry  which  had 
saved  her,  and  so  many  more,  from  shame. 

But  where  was  Giovanni  ?      His  friends  have  been  despatched 
for  him  ;   why  comes  he  not?     The  maid,  now  happy  beyond 
her  h«.pe.  awaits  him  at  the  altar.     And  still  he  comes  not.     Let 
us  go  back  to  the  scene  of  action  in  the  moment  of  his  victory  over 
the  pirate-chief.     Barharo  lies  before  him  in  the  armies  of  death. 
\\ord  it  is  which  has  sent  the  much-dreaded    outlaw   to    his 
last  account.      But   he   himself  is  wounded  —  wounded  severely 
but  not  mortally,  by  the   man  whom  he  has  slain.      At    this  mo 
ment  he  '  |  blow  from  the  axe  of  one  of  the   brothers  of 
"Barbaio.      II,-    had   strength   left    barely  to  behold  and  to  shout 
bis  victory,  when    he   sank   fainting  upon  the  deck  of  the  pirate 
1.      His  further  care  devolved  upon    his   friend.  Xio.lo.  \vho 
f"lb>\ved  liis  f'..>t-te]>s  closely  through  all  the    paths   of  dan- 
tfer.      In  a  state  of  .stupor  he  lies  upon  the  couch  of  Xicolo,  when 
ii.e  aged  prophete«.  the  "Spanish  (Jipsy,"  appeared  beside,   his 

bed. 

••  He  is  called,"  she  said.  "  The  doge  demands  his  presence. 
They  will  bestow  upon  him  his  bride.  Francesca  Ziani.  You 
must  bear  him  thither." 

The     urireoji  shook  his  head. 

"  It  may  an.u-e  him."  said  Nicolo.  "We  can  boar  him  thither 
on  a  litter,  so  that  he  shall  feel  no  pain." 


I'U  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"  It  were  something  to  wake  him  from  this  apathy,"  mused 
thft  surgeon.  "  Be  it  as  tliou  wilt." 

Tims,  grievously  wounded,  was  the  noble  Giovanni  borne  into 
the  midst  of  the  assembly,  for  each  member  of  which  he  had 
suffered  and  done  so  much.  The  soft  music  which  played 
around,  awakened  him.  His  eyes  unclosed  to  discover  the 
lovely  Francesca,  tearful,  but  hopeful,  bending  fondly  over  him. 
She  declared  herself  his.  The  voice  of  the  doge  confirmed  the 
assurance  ;  and  the  eyes  of  the  dying  man  brightened  into  the 
life  of  a  new  and  delightful  consciousness.  Eagerly  he  spoke ; 
his  voice  was  but  a  whisper. 

"  Make  it  so,  I  pray  thee,  that  I  may  live  !" 

The  priest  drew  nigh  with  the  sacred  unction.  The  mar 
riage  service  was  performed,  and  the  hands  of  the  two  were 
clasped  in  one. 

"  Said  I  not  ?"  demanded  an  aged  woman,  who  approached 
the  moment  after  the  ceremonial,  and  whose  face  was  beheld  by 
none  but  him  whom  she  addressed.  "  She  is  thine  !" 

The  youth  smiled,  but  made  no  answer.  His  hand  drew  that 
of  Francesca  closer.  She  stooped  to  his  kiss,  and  whispered 
him,  but  he  heard  her  not.  With  the  consciousness  of  the 
sweet  treasure  that  he  had  won  after  such  sad  denial,  the  sense 
grew  conscious  no  longer — the  lips  of  the  youth  were  sealed 
for  ever.  The  young  Giovanni,  the  bravest  of  the  Venetian 
youth,  lay  lifeless  in  the  embrace  of  the  scarcely  more  livinc 
Francesca.  It  was  a  sad  day,  after  all,  in  Venice,  since  its  tri 
umph  was  followed  by  so  great  a  loss ;  but  the  damsels  of  ihe 
ocean  city  still  declare  that  the  lovers  were  much  more  blest  in 
this  fortune,  than  had  they  survived  for  the  embrace  of  others 
loss  beloved. 

"  Have  I  not  read  something  like  this  story  in  a  touching  ami 
romantic  episode  •riven  in  the  •  Italy'  of  Rogers  ?"  asked  SaH.ia 
Burroughs, 

"  Yes !  Rogers  got  it  from  the  history.  It  is  one  of  those 
incidents  which  enrich  and  enliven  for  romance  the  early  prog 
ress  of  most  d  nations  that  ever  arrived  at  character 
and  civilization.  Of  course,  like  the  famous  legends  of  infant 
Rome,  it  undergoes  the  artist  touch  of  successive  historians  all 


1IIK    illMMKiv.N    A\    4RTI8T.  L65 

of  whom,  in  early  periods,  exercised  in  some  degree  the  privi- 

I  <>f  the  artist,  if  not  the  romancer." 

"The  event  occurs  in  the  first  periods  of  Venetian  story, 
somewhere  about  A.  D.  932,  the  reigning  doge  being  Candiano 
the  Second.  It  is  good  material  for  the  dramatist.  I  should 
commend  it  to  Mr.  Boker,  as  the  subject  of  an  operatic  melo 
drama.  In  the  hands  of  our  young  friend  Marvel,  it  could  be 
wrought  into  a  very  pretty  and  delicate  and  dreamy  work  of 
sentimental  fiction." 


CHAPTER   X. 

A  »,ONG.  and  to  us  a  comparatively  interesting,  conversation 
followed,  —  Virginia,  her  resources,  characteristics,  scenery,  and 
general  moral,  affording  the  principal  subject.  In  this  conversa 
tion,  which  occasionally  ran  into  politics — in  which  some  of  the 
party  showed  their  teeth  very  decidedly  —  the  whole  of  our 
group  was  brought  out,  the  ladies  excepted.  They  had  retired 
for  the  night.  Most  of  us  had  rambled  in  Virginia  at  different 
periods ;  and  it  was  in  the  delivery  of  recollections  and  impres 
sions  that  we  passed  naturally  into  discussion.  I  propose  to 
give  bits  only  of  this  conversation,  leaving  out  the  bites- — con 
fining  my  report  to  the  innocuous  portions  of  the  dialogue,  and 
omitting  certain  sharp  passages  which  occasionally  followed  the 
thoughtless  or  the  wanton  shaft.  One  of  our  "  Down-East" 
brethren  threw  down  the  ball  of  provocation,  dealing  in  a  whole 
sale,  if  not  wholesome,  diatribe  against  all  Southern  agriculture. 
As  his  opinions  are  those  of  a  somewhat  numerous  class,  and  as 
they  are  working  no  little  mischief  at  the  present  day,  it  may 
be  as  well  to  record,  with  tolerable  fullness,  the  portion  of  the 
dialogue  which  ensued  upon  their  utterance. 

"  You  pass  through  Virginia,"  said  he,  "  as  through  a  desert. 
The  towns  are  few,  and  these  all  look  old  and  wretched.  The 
houses  need  paint,  and  are  frequently  in  dilapidation.  The  cul 
ture  is  coarse  and  clumsy,  the  implements  rude,  and  the  people 
seem  entirely  ignorant  of  all  improvements.  They  plough 
plant,  and  reap,  precisely  as  their  fathers  did  a  hundred  years 
ago,  and  without  doing  any  justice  to  their  lands.  The  lands 
have  never  been  properly  worked,  and  manures  are  but  little 
known,  and  less  esteemed.  In  favorite  regions,  along  water 
courses  easily  accessible,  the  plantations  have  been  abandoned 
Bntirdy  exhausted  —  sold  for  a  song,  at  an  avrrap1,  perhaps, 
of  a  dollar  an  acre.  The  same  lands,  in  the  hands  of  New  York 
farmers,  have  been  bought  up,  improved,  made  valuable  for 


CITY     AM-    (or\Ti;V    1.1FK.  1-J7 

wheat-c-.-..p-,  aii-i    raided    r<>  :i  value  ranirin;;    from    fifteen  to  8CV- 

doIUun    per  ftcre.      Thirty  bushels  of  wheat  have 
raised  to  tin-  acre,  on  tracts  which  have  been  tin-own  out  as  bar 
ren.     Alike  ':  North  and  South  Carolina,  where 
similar   ignorance  of  fanning,   and   of  agricultural    implements, 
similar  C-KU >eiie>>  and   clumsiness  in  the  cultivation  of  tin- 
have  led  to  similar  re.Milts —  tin-  di>paraged  value  of  tin-  lands, 
thrir  abandonment,  and   the  neglect  and  dilapidation  of  towns 
and  houses." 

•'  You  simply  know  nothing  about  the  matter,"  said  one  of  the 
party  sharply  in  reply  —  "  or  rather,  you  know  just  enough  of  the 
truth  to  involve  yourself  in  a  monstrous  error.      I  too  have  trav 
elled  in  the  regions  ot  which  you  speak,  and  can  venture  to  say 
something  on  the  subject,  which  has  its  bright  as  well  as  gloomy 
•i-ts.     It  is  not  all  gloomy,  though  it  is  seldom  that  the  hur 
rying  traveller  sees  or  suspects  any  other.     That   you  see  few 
or  no  towns,  and  that  these  look  desolate,  are  the  natural  eiYerts 
of  the  life  of  a  people  purely  agricultural.     The  southern  people 
«'o  not  live  in  towns  if  they  can  avoid  them.     The  culture  and 
command   of  extensive   tracts  of  land  and  forest  give   them   a 
distaste    to    city  lite,  where    they    feel    retrained    by  a   sense   of 
confinement,   and   by   manners  of  artificial   character  —  a   rigid 
conventionalism  imputing  iV-tters  upon  that  ease  and  freedom  of 
bearing  which  belongs  to  the  forest  population.     Besides,  pub- 
pinion    in   the   South    is   unfriendly  to   the   growth  of  large 
-.  which   many  of  their  leading  minds  hold  to  be  al\\a\  -  of 
the    most    mi.-,rhirvoii>    moral    tendency  —  as,  indeed,  the    .Y«/Y/r 
.us  also  to   discover.     Mr.  Jefferson   pronounced   them   the 
v  and  sewers  of  the  commonwealth,  to  be  tolerated  only  as 
among   the   dirty  national  necessities;    and  the  instinct*  of  the 
great  body  of  the  agricultural  population  have  led  them  rightly 
in  the  same  direction.      They  have   learned   to  doubt  the  whole 
s-ness  of  the  atmosphere  of  city  life.     Regarding  towns  as 
the   mere   agencies  of  the  producer,  they  do  not  desire  to  see 
then.  a  larger  population  than   is  necessary  to  the 

•  tctual  hi:  !..ive  to  perform. 

^  'ii,  at  the  North,  on  the  contrary,  look  to  your  flourishing 
towns,  your  line  h-tu-es,  great  masses  of  brick  and  stone,  with 
thousaj:d>  jostling  in  the  thoroughfares,  as  proofs  of  prosperity 


168  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

and  civilization ;  though,  of  these  thousands,  thousands  live  bj 
_  try,  by  theft,  chicanery,  and  the  constantly  active  exer- 
of  a  thousand  evil  arts — the  inevitable  consequence  of 
--ities  which  could  not  arise  to  the  community  were  the 
unnecessary  members  driven  to  an  honest,  healthy,  industrious 
occupation  in  neglected  fields  of  agriculture.  You  judge  mostly 
by  externals,  which  rarely  show  the  truth  —  the  people  in  cities 
being  chiefly  learned  in  the  art  of  concealing  their  true  condi 
tion,  and  making  the  best  show  to  their  neighbors ;  while  th>- 
Southern  agriculturists  know  nothing  of  this  art,  exhibit  them 
selves  precisely  as  they  are  ;  use  no  white  paint  to  cover  ol»! 
boards  —  no  stucco  to  make  common  brick  look  like  stone  ;  an<^ 
satisfied  with  the  real  comforts  of  their  condition,  never  busy 
themselves  in  the  endeavor  to  impose  upon  their  neighbors  with 
the  splendors  of  a  season  which  would  only  lead  to  bankruptcy. 

"  The  dilapidated  Virginia  farmhouse,  for  example,  will   re 
ceive  more  guests,  at  the  family  table,  in  one  month,  than  the 
marble  palace  in  Broadway  or  Fifth  Avenue  will  entertain   in 
one  year.     There  will  be  always  plenty  and  a  generous  wel 
come,  though  the  service  be  of  delph  and  not  of  silver. 

"  That  we  have  not  towns  and  villages  is  the  inevitable 
iv<ult  of  staple  cultivation.  Ere/-//  {>l<intatio7i  in  a  village,  and 
where  it  is  a  large  one,  it  will  be  found  provided  with  aH  the 
essential  elements  of  progress  and  performance,  precisely  as 
they  are  to  be  found  in  a  village.  Here,  for  example,  is  always- 
a  blacksmith  and  a  carpenter,  possibly  a  wheelwright,  and  fre 
(juently  a  shoemaker;  while,  in  place  of  a  hotel,  for  the  recep 
lion  of  the  stranger,  is  the  mansion-house  of  the  planter  — 
wanting  in  paint,  I  grant  —  of  ancient  fashion,  uncouth  architec 
ture —  the  floors,  perhaps,  not  carpeted,  and  the  furniture  of 
that  dark,  massive  mahogany  which  the  city  of  New  York 
would  revolt  at,  but  which  carries  to  my  mind  an  idea  of  the 
dignity  of  an  ancient  race,  and  that  reverence  for  the  antique 
whii-h  is,  perhaps,  too  much  wanting  in  every  part  of  our  coun 
try,  except  the  aid  *fd/rx  of  tin'  ,SVy/////. 

'•  This  ancient  mansion  will  be  found  usually  with  its  doorg 
thrown  wide  —  in  sign  of  welcome.  Lest  you  should  doubt,  as 
you  approach  it,  you  behold  the  planter  himself  descending  tlu, 
old  brick  steps  to  welcome  you.  You  will  be  confounded  to  se« 


aODTHEUi    K.roNoMY. 

that  his  costume  is  neither  fine  nor  fashionable  —  that  he  wears 

a  prcat  broad-brimmed  white  liat,  exceedingly  ample,  which 
may  have  been  inanufacturecl  for  his  grandfather.  His  coat 
may  be  of  white  flannel,  and  out  at  the  elbows  ;  and  his  panta 
loons  will  be  of  domestic  manufacture,  homespun  or  nankin 

n.  If  you  are  wise  enough  to  look  below  tin*  externals, 
you  will  see,  perhaps,  that  he  has  learned  to  despise  them  —  at 
all  events,  you  will  perceive  that  he  has  sacrificed  tor  tliese  none 
of  the  essentials  of  the  host,  the  gentleman,  or  the  patriot.  !!'.- 
hospitality  is  unimpaired  by  his  antiquity  —  nay,  it  forms  a  part 
of  it — and  in  the  retention  of  the  one,  he  has  retained  the 
other  as  a  matter  of  neces- '\  .  As  a  gentleman,  he  is  frank 
and  easy  of  manner,  unaffected  in  hi.s  hearing,  and  always  soli 

H  of  your  comfort  and  satisfaction.  He  does  not  suffer  you 
to  perceive  that  he  would  have  been  better  pleased  that  you 
should  have  admired  his  line  house,  and  passed  on  without  task 
ing  its  hospitality.  These  are  characteristics  which  must  be 
taken  as  an  otV-et  to  those  respects  which  you  select  for  censure, 
have  said,  are  the  natural  consequence  of  staple  cul 
ture.  It  is  the  farming  culture,  which  exhibits  and  requires 
much  nicety  of  detail.  In  the  hands  of  the  planter  of  a  staple, 
lands  are  held  in  bodies  too  large  to  be  handled  minutely.  It 
is  the  small  plat  only  -which  you  can  put  in  bandbox  condition. 

Ifl  in  .staple  countries  are  of  less  value  than  labor  —  in  fann 
ing  countries,  of  greater  value  than  labor.  In  proportion  as  the 
population  bec'.mes  dense,  they  HM-  in  value.  Hut  few  southern 
planters  desire  adeire  population.  One  secret  of  their  ho>pi- 
tality  is  •  -iveness  of  their  ra  \  wealthy  planter, 

ha\ing   from   fifty  to  live  hundred   slaves,  will    have  from  a  hun 
dred    to   a   thousand    head  of  cattle.      He   kills  so   man- 
per  annum,  from  four  to  forty,  according   to  hi  That  he 

can  order  a  nnittnii  to    he  slaughtered,  even    though    bu* 
guest    claims    his   hospitality,  is    due    to   his  extensive    tntctl  ol 
field  and  fore-t.      He  seldom  sends  any  of  his  sheep,  cattle,  corn, 
or  other  provision^   to   market.      These    are   all    retained    for  the 
wants  of  the  homestead. 

••  It  will  not  do  for  you,  recognising  the  peculiar  characteristics 
of  his  mode  of  life--     their  elegances,  comforts,  and    bou: 
fo   cavil   at   deficiencies,  which   could    onK  by  his 


170  M»i  THWAHD    HO  1 

abandonment  of  habits  which  are  grateful  to  the  virtues,  and 
which  maintain  in  him  the  essentials  of  all  high  character — 
dignity  and  reverence." 

"  But  there  must  be  an  end  to  all  this  hospitality.  The  south 
ern  planter  is  not  prosperous.  His  fields  are  failing  him  —  his 
staples  are  no  longer  valuable." 

"  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.  Give  us  time. 
Let  time  answer  your  prophecy  ;  for  it  is  prediction  —  not  argu 
ment,  not  fact  —  which  you  assert.  There  is  no  need  that  his 
hospitality  should  be  at  an  end.  It  only  needs  that  it  should 
be  more  discriminating,  and  that  the  southern  planter  should 
steadily  close  his  door  against  those  who  come  to  eat  his  bread 
only  to  denounce  the  manner  in  which  it  is  made,  and  to  sleep 
securely  beneath  his  roof  only  to  leave  curses  rather  than  prayers 
behind  them.  He  must  only  be  sure  that  his  guest,  when  a 
stranger,  is  a  gentleman  and  an  honest  man ;  and  he  will  prob 
ably,  witli  this  modification  of  his  hospitality,  never  be  wanting 
in  the  necessary  means  for  satisfying  it. 

"  But,  touching  his  prosperity,  I  hold  it  to  be  the  greatest 
mistake  in  the  world  —  examining  things  by  just  and  intrinsic 
laws  —  to  suppose  that  he  is  not  prosperous.  The  southern 
planter  does  not  derive  from  his  labors  so  large  a  money  income 
a>  lie  formerly  did,  when  the  culture  of  his  great  staple  was 
comparatively  in  lew  hands.  It  is  something  different,  certainly, 
to  receive  twenty  cents  instead  of  one  hundred  for  long  cotton>. 
and  six  cents  instead  of  thirty  for  short.  But,  in  fact,  the  dif 
ference  does  not  substantially  affect  his  prosperity,  if  ///•  In-  nut 
dln-u'Ii/  in  tlt-ht.  In  the  period  of  high  prices  for  his  staples,  he 
couhl  readily  abandon  farming  culture  to  his  less  prosperous 
in-i^hl"n>.  leaving  it  to  other  states  to  supply  his  grain,  his  for 
age,  his  vegetables,  his  cattle,  mules,  and  horses,  for  which  he 
coiiM  well  M  fiord  to  nay  from  the  excess  of  his  income.  But 
with  his  ie-<Mirees  reduced,  his  policy  necessarily  changes,  and 
is  changing  hourly,  in  recognition  of  new  laws  and  new  necessi 
ties.  This  change  effected,  his  property  will  continue  as  before, 
though  actually  no  pvat  amount  of  money  passes  through  his 
hands,  llis  fields,  that  tcert  failing  him  when  he.  addn 
them  \vhollv  to  the  culture  »>f  a  single  staple,  are  recovering, 
ii"\v  th;it  hf  alternates  his  crops,  and  economizes,  prepares,  and 


:i:   AM.  i\nmi>r\L-.  171 

employs  his  manure.  He  ceases  to  buy  grain  and  provisions, 
lie  raises  his  own  hogs  and  cattle,  and  his  ploughs  are  driven 
by  mules  and  horses  foaled  in  his  <>wn  pa-tures.  He  discovers 
that  he  is  not  worse  off  now,  in  raising  the  commodities  them- 
64,  for  the  purchase  of  which  he  simply  raised  the  cash  be 
fore  ;  and  he  further  discovers  that,  under  the  present  system, 
he  learns  tn  economize  land  ami  lahor,  to  improve  the  Duality 
of  the  land,  and  the  excellence  of  the  lahor;  land  rises  in  value 
with  the  introduction  of  thorough  tillage;  and  a  cleanlier,  more 
compact  method  of  culture,  increases  the  health  of  the  climate 
as  well  as  the  prosperity  of  the  planters.  With  thorough  tillage 
he  can  feed  his  stock,  and  thus  lessen  the  extent  of  his  ranges; 
and  this  results  in  a  gradually-increasing  deux  ness  of  the  set 
tlements,  which  are  all  that  is  necessary  to  rendering  the  ri 
as  prosperous  as  the  individual  has  heen." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  this  distinction  ?" 

"  It  is  one  that  politicians  do  not  often  make,  and  it  consti- 
jrand  feature  in  which  the  southern  states  are  deficient 
to  a  northern  eye.      It  occasions  some  of  the  difficulties  in  your 
modes  of  reasoning.     The  wealth   of  the  state   must  dcj 

!y   upon    its   numbers.     The   wealth  of  the  individual   will 
dep.-nd  chietly  upon  hin^elf.      The  people  of  a  Mate  may   be  all 
in  the  enjoyment  of  comfort  and  alllucnce,  yet  the  state  may  be 
poor.      Thll  il  the  case  with  all  the  southern  state.-,  the  govern 
ment  of  which  has  a  sparsely-settled  population  <,n  which  t«> 
Where   the    population  is  thinly  planted,  the    roads  will   be,  ini'e- 
;he    public  works    infrequent    and  of   mean  appearance,  and 
the  cities  (which  depend  wholly  upon  a  contiguous  back  country 
f->r  Mippurt)  will   stagnate  in  visible   decline,  u  anting  enter; 
and  •  The  mads,  the  public  buildings,  and  tin-  cities,  bv 

which  tin  .  judges  of  the  prosperity  of  a  people,  will  all 

depend  upon  the  population  of  a  state.     If  this  be  large  —  if  tho 
soil    is    well   covered  —  the    powers  of   taxation  are   necessarily 

enlarged,  without, perh&p?,  gi  ordenaome  to  any ;  but  thu 

means  of   life  will  •    poudiiij;!y  diminished   in   the  hands 

of  the  greater  number.     Want  and  \viil  trouble  thou- 

lew   \\iil    grOK    lich    at    the    exj  tb«     e>t  ;    with 

the  greater  unml  er,  th-  int  tVoni  murninu' 

to  night,  to  supply  the  im-t  limit  ,  painful  . 


17-  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

But  in  the  southern  states,  where  the  public  works  are  few,  the 
public  buildings  humble,  and  the  cities  of  difficult  growth  or  of 
stagnating  condition,  the  great  body  of  the  people  —  nay,  all 
the  people,  bond  and  free  —  live  in  the  enjoyment  of  plenty 
always,  and,  in  most  cases,  of  a  wondrous  degree  of  comfort. 

"  To  illustrate  this  more  completely  by  parallels :  Great 
Britain  and  France  are,  of  course,  immeasurably  superior,  not 
only  to  the  southern  states  of  the  Union,  but  to  all  the  states, 
North  and  South,  in  the  wonders  of  art,  the  great  thoroughfares, 
the  noble  buildings,  and  the  gigantic  cities.  These  are  errone 
ously  assumed  to  be  the  proofs  of  prosperity  in  a  nation,  when  it 
is  somewhat  doubtful  if  they  can  be  even  regarded  as  just  proofs 
of  its  civilization.  But,  in  Great  Britain  and  France,  millions 
rise  every  morning,  in  doubt  where  they  shall  procure  the  daily 
bread  which  shall  satisfy  the  hunger  of  nature  through  the  next 
twelve  hours.  No  such  apprehension  ever  troubles  the  citizen 
of  the  rural  districts  of  the  South.  Rich  and  poor,  black  and 
white,  bond  and  free,  are  all  superior  to  this  torturing  anxiety ; 
and  the  beggar,  who  in  the  great  cities  of  Europe  and  America 
is  as  frequent  as  their  posts,  is  scarcely  ever  to  be  seen,  even,  in 
a  southern  city  —  and  then  he  is  chiefly  from  a  northern  city, 
whence  he  flies  to  a  region,  of  the  hospitality  of  which  (in  spite 
of  its  failing  fortunes)  some  vague  rumors  have  reached  his  ears. 
II.-  tlies  from  the  proud  and  prosperous  cities  of  the  North,  seek 
ing  his  bread  at  the  hands  of  a  people  whom  you  profess  to 
de-pi-e  lor  their  decline." 

"  With  these  convictions,  why  do  you  repine  and  complain  .'" 

"  1  do  neither.  To  do  either  is  unmanly.  That  the  southern 
p.-oplt-  do  complain,  more  than  is  proper  and  needful,  is  surely  a 
something  to  be  regretted;  since  he  vho  pauses  to  complain 
will  probably  never  overtake  his  flying  prosperity.  But,  that 
there,  should  be  ^looin  and  despondency  is  but  natural  with  a 
people  who,  without  positively  sufVerin^  in  fortune  or  comfort,  are 
yet  Compelled,  by  large  transitions  of  fortune,  to  contrast  their 
•  nt  witli  their  past.  It  is  not  that  we  are  ruined  now,  but 
that  we  remember  how  fortunate  we  were  before.  If  we  com 
pare  ourselves  with  other  people,  ;md  not  with  ourselves,  we 
shall  probably  congratulate  ourselves  rather  than  complain." 

"  With    your  views,  you    are   then  satisfied    that    your    peopl- 


RESOUi:>  i  H::  SOOTH,  IT:'. 

should   continue    rural    occnpatlo-is   exclusively,  to    the  rejection 
of  manufaetu! 

"By  no  means  I  am  anxious,  on  the  contrary,  that  our  j 
pie  should  embark  in  every  department  of  art  and  trade  l'"i 
which  they  themselves  or  our  climate  may  l.e  fitted,  if  only  that 
we  may  he  perfectly  independent  of  our  northern  brethren.  \Ve 
have  abundance  of  water-power*  aO  over  the  South  ;  we  have, 
the  operatives  on  the  spot  ;  and  we  raise  all  the  raw  materials 
-sary  for  manufactures.  ( )ur  water-power  never  congeals 
with  frost;  our  operative  never  work  short,  or  strike  for  in- 
B,  for  we  always  keep  them  well  fed  and  well 
clothed  ;  we  pension  their  aged  ;  we  protect  and  provide  for  their 
young;  and,  instead  of  being  sickly  at  the  toils  we  impose  — 
punv  and  perishing  —  they  are  always  lat  and  frolicsome,  and 
always  on  the  increase  ;  and  cotton  is  every  day  passing  into 
more  general  use,  as  clothing  for  the  poorer  races  of  mankind. 
But,  in  the  introduction  of  manufactures,  1  do  not  propose  that 
we  should  neglect  or  abandon  any  of  our  staples:  I  pro, 
that  we  should  only  employ  our  surplus  population  and  lands 
lor  the  ]  .  There  are  large  tracts  ol  territory,  f  >r  exam 

ple,  in  the  ('ar..lina<.  which  answer  for  neither  cotton,  tobacco, 
nor  the  smaller  grains.  In  these  very  regions,  there  is  water 
er  in  abundance;  and  where  this  is  not  the  case,  there  is 
fuel  in  inexhaustible  abundance,  for  the  Use  of  stenm-power. 
I  propose  to  increaac  the  wealth  of  the  state  by  the  application 
of  the-e  regions  to  their  proper  Use." 

"  Hut    if   vour  whole   coimtrv    should    become    manufacturing. 
wh\    not  '      The  profits  nt    manufactures  are  \a.>tly  greater  than 
the    i-.,ttoii    culture.      I    have    1MB    some    statistics    of 
South  Carolina,  where  it  is  estimated  that  seven  hundred  0] 
||T6I  will    reali/.e    as    lni'_re    a    result,  in    working   up    the   cotton, 
a*  a   whole    district  of   t  \\enty-tive    thousand    people    in    making 
the    raw    material.      They  will    work    up   seven    thousand    i 
triplicating    if>    value,  while    the    t\\.i:t\    live    thoU>aiM 
but  a  single  bale  to  each  inhabitant." 

"This  is  the-  .,  \\hieh    delude    the  world.      It    is 

perhaps  (rue  that  a  dUhict  of  South  Carolina  having  twenty-fix  .• 
thousand  people  will  sen  I  hut  twenty-live  thous.-md  bags  «>t 
ton    to    muiket.       It    is    aUo    true,    perhaps,  that    j-iglif    hundred 


IT  I  1I1WAKI)    HO  1 

operatives  in  a  manufactory  will,  by  their  labor,  increase  thive 
fold  the  value  of  eight  thousand  hales,  making  a  total  of  market- 
values  equal  to  the  twenty-five  thousand  bales.  But  when  the 
operatives  have  done  this,  they  have  done  nothing  more  than 
reed  and  clothe  themselves,  while,  in  fact,  the  cotton-planter  lias 
sent  nothing  but  his  .v///y>///.v  crop  into  the  market.  He  has  lived 
and  fed  well,  with  all  his  operatives  besides.  Of  the  twenty-five 
thousand  persons  in  agriculture,  twelve  thousand  enjoy  luxuries, 
ns  well  as  comforts,  which  are  not  common  to  the  cities.  They 
have  more  leisure  ;  they  enjoy  more  society  ;  most  of  them  ride 
on  horseback,  and  the  greater  number  of  families  keep  carriage 
or  buggy.  Nothing  is  said  of  the  variety  of  food  which  they 
command,  or  may  command  —  the  delights  of  their  own  homes, 
in  their  own  grounds,  their  own  gardens  and  firesides ;  and  the 
ease,  the  independence  and  elasticity,  which  belong  to  him  who 
lives  in  the  air  and  sunshine ;  in  exercises  which  are  grateful ; 
and  retires  from  his  toils  at  an  early  hour,  to  the  enjoyments  of 
his  homestead  and  his  sleep.  But  talking  of  sleep  reminds  me 
of  supper.  Captain,  if  my  nose  does  not  greatly  err,  we  are  in 
the  latitude  of  the  old  North  State.  I  have  been  smelling  tar 
and  turpentine  for  the  last  half  hour." 


CHAPTER   XI. 

Ot'R  discussion  had  taken  an  essayical  form,  and  was  fast  los 
ing  its  interest.  Continued  desultorily,  it  became  descriptive. 

••  1  was  travelling  through  North  Carolina  last  season,"  said 
one  <>f  the  South-Carolinians  present,  "  and  was  availed  upon 
tlie  route  by  a  hale  and  rather  pursy  old  farmer,  with  a  long 
and  curious  examination  on  the  subject  of  South  Carolina  politics. 
It  was  th<-  time  of  the  threatened  sec«'-sii>n  movement. 

•••  Well,'  said  he,  •  what  arc  you  people  <rwine  to  do  in  South 
Car'lina  !  Air  you  in  airnest  note  /' — 'I  think  so!' — 'And 
what  will  you  do  —  rut  loose?' — 'It  is  not  improhuhle.' — 'But 
you're  not  all  for  it.' — '  NO  '  l,y  no  means.  It  is  yet  to  be  de 
cided  whether  there's  a  majority  for  separate  state  secession  ; 
there  is  very  little  donht  that  a  vast  majority  favors  (he  forma- 
tiMti  of  a  Southern  ( '.mfederaey.' --  'And  do  y<'ii  rerkon  that 
tin-  Federal  Government  will  let  you  go  off  quietly.' — 'It  is 
so  thought  hy  certain  among;  us.'  —  'But  you?' — 'I  think 
otherwise.  1  think  thry  ;-an  hardly  suffer  us  to  do  so.  It 
would  he  fatal  to  their  revenue  >y-tem.' — '  Well,  and  if  they 
trv  to  put  you  down  —  what  are  you  irwine  to  do?' — '  1  sup; 

hall  have  to  carry  the  attack  into  the  enemy'>  country,  and 
put  tin-Mi  down  in  turn.'  —  'That's  rijrht.  and  I'm  one  of  them 
that  stand  ready  •  hand  whenever  you  want  help.  1 

aint  of  the  way  of  thinking  of  Mr.  iWkrry  lit  may  he  1  )ickery 
—  I'ickerv,   l>ickery,  D«-rk  —  something  of  the    sort    it    is),  who 
he'fl  for  i'inin^;  the  IVderal  .  --ut  a^in  you.  and  voting 

mm    and    money  to  put    youdo\\n.      I    reckon    th>  : -e's  very  few 
in  the  Old   St-ite    •  \\-ith    liini.      He'>  a  nati\»-   from    your 

country,  too,  I'm   a-thinkin  re    a   rether  sh>w  p»-.ple  in 

h    Carolina,  htit     I    reckon  we're    sure    and    s-.und,  and   true 
•rr'.t.  and  true  South.     We  don't  think  y»u'r<'  ri^'ht.  in  what  y 
a-doinir,  nwin^  to  the  fact  th  i'   Sout1:    <  Bft'l  alway>  a  \( 

t«  n  '  '   '    and    micrhty  apt    to  £o  off  nt  a  half  r^ek  :    Vi»:' 


(76  SOUTHWARD    HO ! 

too  quick,  we  believe  it's  a  quickness  pretty  much  on  the  right 
side.  I'm  a-tliinking  there's  no  chance  for  us  in  the  eend,  unless 
we  cut  loose  from  the  whole  Yankee  consarn.  Old  Isaac  Cop- 
pidge,  one  of  my  neighbors,  he  said  more  than  twenty  years  ago, 
when  you  was  for  Nullifying — that  you  would  do  right  to  break 
up  the  Union,  you  South-Carolinians  —  that  the  Union  was  jest 
a  sort  of  Union  between  a  mighty  fat  frog  and  a  hungry  black- 
snake —  that  the  fat  frog  was  the  South,  and  the  hungry  snake 
the  North.  And,  says  he,  it's  because  the  frog  is  so  big  and  so 
fat,  that  the  snake  kaint  swallow  him  all  at  once.  But  the  snake's 
got  fast  hold,  and  the  frog's  a-gitting  weaker  every  day  —  and 
every  day  a  little  more  of  him  goes  down  ;  when  the  day  comes 
that  the  frog  gives  up  and  lies  quirt,  the  snake'll  finish  him. 
That  was  what  old  Ike  Coppidge  used  to  say,  and  jest  what  he 
says  now.  As  I  said,  my  friend,  we  don't  altogether  like  your 
doings,  but  there's  a  many  among  us,  who  didn't  like  'em  in  the 
Nullification  times.  But  we  see  that  the  thing's  getting  worse, 
the  frog's  gitting  lower  and  lower  in  the  snake's  swallow,  and 
we've  hafe  a  notion  that  you're  pretty  nigh  to  be  right  efter  all. 
We'd  like  you  to  wait  a  bit  on  us ;  but  ef  you  don't,  we'll  have 
a  turn  at  the  pump-handle,  whenever  there's  a  fire  in  your 
house.  There's  mighty  few  that  think  with  Squire  Dickery  (or 
Dockery),  and  we'll  git  right  side  up  before  we're  swallowed. 
I  kin  tell  you  that  Clingman  will  distance  his  man  by  three  thou 
sand  votes,  or  I'm  a  sinner  in  mighty  great  danger.'  " 

The  anecdote  brought  out  one  of  our  passengers  from  North 
Carolina,  who  had  not  before  spoken.  He  showed  himself 
equally  jealous  of  Virginia  on  one  hand,  and  South  Carolina  mi 
the  other.  The  Virginian  dashed  in  ;  and  in  a  little  while  the 
conversation  became  general.  But  we  soon  subsided  again  into 
description, 

"Harper's  l-Vn-y  disappointed  me,"  said  one  of  the  party. 
Jn  fact,  the  traveller  wonders  at  that  extravagance  of  admira 
tion,  which,  in  the,  case  of  Mr.  Jefferson  and  others,  dilated  iu 
terms  of  such  wonder  and  admiration,  upon  the.  sublimity  and 
•  denr  of  a  seem-.  \\-hirh  in  no  place  rises  above  the.  pictu- 
leMjue.  It  is  impo»ible  for  anybody  to  identify  any  spot  in 
this  neighborhood  with  the  scene  described  by  the  sage  of  Mon- 
licello.  lint  Jefferson,  though  ;>  \ .  rv  great  man,  in  certaii;  re 


SHKN. \\no.\H    \ '  M  I  177 

ilso,  no  little  of  a  humbug.     His  superlatives  • 
apt  to  be  bestowal,  even  where  his  imagination  was  unex< 
It  is  barely  p"  —  il  le   that  lu-  himself  felt  tho  wonders  which  he 
described  as  visible  in  this  region;  but  to  most  other  persons  his 
description  appears  to  be  the  superb  of  hyperbole.     The  scene 
is   undoubtedly   a    lino   one  —  pleasing   and   picturesque.      The. 
junction,  of  two  broad  rivers,  at  tin-  feet  of  double  mountain  ran- 

•  •an  nut  be  otherwise.  Beauty  is  here,  and  dignity,  and 
the  eye  liners  with  gratification  upon  the  sweet  pictures  which 
are  made  of  the  scene,  at  the  rising  and  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
Standing  upon  a  jagged  peak  below  the  junction,  and  suffering 
the  eye  to  sweep  »ver  the  two  broad  gorges  within  its  range  — 
green  slopes  gradually  ax-ending  from,  or  abrupt  rocks  sullenly 
hanging  above,  the  shallow  waters  glittering  in  the  sunlight, 
you  will  naturally  choose  a  hundred  different  spots  upon  which 
you  would  fancy  the  appearance  of  a  Gothic  or  Grecian  cottage. 
But  no  ideas  of  majesty,  grandeur,  force,  power  or  sublimity,  lift 
you  into  the  regions  of  enthusiasm.  The  rivers  are  shallow  and 
forceless.  There  are  no  impetuous  rages,  no  fierce,  impulsive 
gushings,  in,  fearful  strifes  with  crag,  and  boulder  —  no  .storms. 

i  rents,  no  agonies  of  conflict  between  rock  and  river.  The 
re  not  only  placid,  but  quiet  even  to  tameness.  They 
seem  to  have  made  their  way  through  the  rocks  insidiou-ly  ; 
with  the  ^lidini;  sinuosity  of  the  snake,  rather  than  the  wild 
flight  of  the  eagle,  or  the  mighty  rush  of  the  tijrer.  They  have, 
sapped  the  mountain  citadels,  not  stormed  them;  and  n- 
could  have  posM'-M-d  thi-  \  olume  to  have  done  otherwise.  The 

iption  of   Mr.  .Ji-n"er>on  would  better  suit  the   French   Broad 
in    North    Carolina,  to  which    the    -cene    at   Hai  pel's    Ferry  can 
not  f>r  a  moment  compare,  whether  Bfl  regards  beauty,  maj 
or  .sublimity.     In   contrast,  the  si  une   absolutely  sluggish, 

They  neither  rive,  nor  rend.  n.»r  r;i^e,  n..r  r<>ar  amoii£  the  i< 
They  have    \\»  wild  rnpids.  ,,,,  fnamiii^  wrath,  no  headlong  plun 
ges,  no  boilinir    ab  1    to    him  who  goes    thither,  with    hiv. 
mind  full  ••!'  Mr.  .)•  :                   !e>criptioii,  there  i.s  n-'thin^  in  re.-- 
but  disappointment. 

••  Hut  what  of  the  Sl.enandoah  Val! 

"The  valley  .if  the  Sheiiandoah  mi^ht  reali/e  to  the  youthful 
romancer   hi.s   most   pcifert  idea  nf  Arcadia        EtepOSUIg    <•'  'ly  in 


178 

the  bosom  of  protecting  mountains,  she,  unfolds  to  the  embrace 
of  the  sun  the  most  prolific  beauties.  Her  charms  are,  of  a  sort 
to  inspire  the  most  perfect  idylls,  and  to  mature  the  mind  for 
contemplation,  and  to  enliven  the  affections  for  enjoyment.  A 
dream  of  peace,  sheltered  by  the  wings  of  security,  seems  to 
hallow  her  loveliness  in  the  sight  of  blue  mountains,  and  the 
smiling  heavens.  On  every  hand  spread  out  favorite  places  for 
re-treat  and  pleasure,  the  most  grateful  of  all,  in  which  life  suf 
fers  no  provocations  inconsistent  with  mental  revery,  and  where 
the  daily  necessities  harmonize  pleasantly  with  the  most  nutri 
tious  fancies.  Here  the  farmer  may  become  the  poet;  here  soli 
tude  may  yield  proper  occasion  for  thought :  and  thought,  enli 
vened  by  the  picturesque,  may  rise  to  a  constant  enjoyment  of 
imagination.  There  is  no  scene  so  uniform  as  to  induce  monot 
ony  or  weariness.  Green  fields  terminate  in  gentle  heights, 
heights  are  rendered  musical  with  companionable  voices,  by  the 
perpetual  murmur  of  rills  and  waterfalls.  The  eye  that  rests 
upon  the  rock  is  charmed  away  by  the  sunny  shadmcs  that  chase 
each  other,  in  perpetual  sport,  over  valleys  and  sloping  lawns ; 
and  the  heart  feels  that  here,  if  it  be  not  the  case,  it  should  be, 
that  the  spirit  of  man  may  be  as  divine  as  the  region  in  which 
he  finds  his  abode.  That  the  heart  is  not  here  sufficiently  sub 
dued  to  appreciate  justly  its  possessions  of  nature  —  that  the 
ta-ies  have  not  here  sufficiently  refined,  in  accordance  with  the 
sweetness,  simplicity,  beauty  and  sincerity  of  the  place  —  is  only 
due  to  the  freshness  of  the  scene  and  the  newness  of  society.  In 
proportion  as  the  sense  awakens  to  what  it  enjoys  —  as  the 
means  of  life  increase,  and  as  prosperity  leads  to  leisure,  will 
be  the  improvement,  mentally  and  spiritually,  of  a  region,  which 
only  needs  to  be  justly  known,  in  all  its  charms  and  treasures. 
Tiriu'  will  bring  about  the  necessary  improvement.  As  it  is,  the 
M-enc  is  one  where  the  heart,  already  matured,  and  the,  tastes 
.•ilivady  cultivated,  may  find  a  thousand  abodes,  in  which  life 
may  pass  away  as  a  lonj*  and  grateful  sunny  day,  lapsing 
lly  into  sleep  ;\\  last,  in  a  couch  hung  with  purple,  and  un 
der  a  sky  of  blue,  draped  with  the  loveliest  hues  and  colors  of  a 

•il  tuntet." 

Somehow,  we   got    back    to   tho       !       kern   Shore,"  which  wo 
lad  already  left  belili;-!  u.-,  both  m  .'-hip  and   story.      One.  of  the 


tTLAHTK       i:  JERY.  IT!1 

party  was  an  ftdTOC*t«  for  niode>t  scenery,  that  which  required 
yen  to  seek  its  beauties  in  the  shade,  and  never  sought  to  com 
pel  y<»ur  admiration  by  its  own  ohtrusivene-s.  He  had  found 
pictures  for  the  eye  where  lew  persons  seek  them.  Thus:  — 
The  argument  depending  upon  moral,  really,  and  not  physical 
aspects : — 

"  In  approaching  the  4  Kastern  Shore'  of  Virginia,"  said  he, 
"passing  from  '  ( )ld  1'oint'  across  the  hay,  yon  find  yourself  gli 
ding  toward  such  scenes  of  repose,  delicacy,  and  quiet  beauty,  as 
always  commend  themselves  to  eyes  which  are  studious  of  de 
tail.  To  value  the  beautiful,  apart  from  the  sublime,  requires 
the  nicely  discriminating  eye.  Here,  you  pass,  in  rapid  succes 
sion,  from  headland  to  harbor.  —  Gentle  promontories  shoot 
forth  to  welcome  you,  crowded  with  foliage,  and  affording  pro- 
>n  to  sweet  waters,  and  the  most  pleasant  recesses  for  timid 
nymphs.  You  almost  look  to  see  the  naiads  darting  through 
the  rippling  waters,  in  fond  pursuit,  with  shouts  and  laughter. 
The  ocean  arrested  by  the  headlands,  which  have  been  mostly 
upheaved  from  its  own  sandy  hollows,  subsides  here  into  so 
many  lakelets,  whose  little  billows  ju^t  sullice  to  break  ph--i>- 
antly  the  monotony  of  their  glassy  surface.  These  bays  are 
scooped  out  from  the  shore,  scooped  into  it,  rather,  in  the  half- 
M  f.irm,  leaviir  !i  a  -andy  margin,  and  a  hard  beach, 

upon  which  you  see  the  gentleman's  yacht,  or  the  fisherman's 
boat  drawn  up,  while  the  children  «>f  both  are  rollicking  together, 
rolling  out  among  the  rollers  of  the  deep.  Peace  and  s\\ee' 
and  love,  .seem  to  be  the  guardian  genii  of  these  secluded 
places  ;  repose  and  contemplation  are  natural  occupations;  one 
that  the  pas.sions  hen-  do  not  e.\eici>e  them-rU •«•>  madly  and 
suicidally  —  that  they  are  economized  and  employed  «.nly  under 
the  guidance  of  the  ailections —  and  that  it  is  possible  -till  to 
realize  in  fact  the  fictions  nf  the  (ioldeii  A 

"  You  should  be  a  p 

"One    can    hardly    e.-cape    Mich     fancies,    beholding    such    a 

••  And  tin-  -••lituiie  of  tiie  region,  though  along  the  Atlantic 
shore,  and  contiguous  t<>  -reat  mails  «.f  eivili/ation,  is  quite  ait 
profound  as  amo;;_  the  gorges  of  our  own  Apal  mil 


180 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  and  the  proof  may  be  found  in  the  character 
and  manners  of  the  people  of  the  '  Eastern  Shore.'  These 
have  scarcely  undergone  any  vital  change  in  the  last  hundred 
years.  They  will  tell  you  that  here  you  find  the  best  speci 
mens  of  the  old  Virginian  :  one  of  the  '  Lions'  of  the  '  Eastern 
shore'  by  the  way,  is  an  ancient  vault,  to  which  I  was  conduct 
ed  with  considerable  interest.  It  lies  upon  an  ancient  farmstead, 
looking  out  upon  the  '  bay,'  and  occupies  the  centre  of  an  old 
field,  of  which,  sheltered  by  some  old  trees,  it  is  the  only  prom 
inent  object.  It  belonged  to  a  member  of  the  Custis  family,  a 
branch  of  the  same  stock  with  which  Washington  intermarried. 
Its  curious  feature  is  to  be  found  in  its  inscription.  The  vault, 
which  is  now  in  a  state  of  dilapidation,  is  of  white  marble,  made 
in  London  and  curiously  carved.  Old  Custis,  the  incumbent, 
was  a  queer  old  codger,  and  rather  hard  upon  the  fair  sex,  if  we 
may  judge  by  his  epitaph,  which  runs  literally  as  follows  : — 

"  Under  this  marble  tomb  lies  the  body  of  the 

HON.  JOHN  CUSTIS,  Esq., 

of  tho  City  of  Williamsburg  and  Parish  of  Burton;  formerly  of  Hungar's  l';u- 
i*h.  on  tin-  Eastern  shore  of  Virginia,  and  County  of  Northampton:  aged  71 
years,  nn<l  yrt  /irt'd  but  seven  years,  which  was  tlif  space,  of  time  he  kept  A  BACH 
ELOR'S  HOMK  at  Arlington,  on  the  Eastern  shore  of  Virginia. 

This  inscription,  we  are  told  by  another,  on  the  opposite  side, 
"  was  put  on  the  tomb  by  his  own  positive  orders."  The  eisf 
of  it,  as  the  ladies  will  painfully  perceive,  consists  in  the  line 
we  have  italicised  ;  the  force  of  which  will  be  better  felt  and 
understood  from  the  additional  fact,  which  does  not  appear,  that 
this  bachelor,  who  fired  only  in  his  bachelor  condition,  //v/.v  ac 
tually  mar r 'ml  fl/rce  times.  His  experience,  if  we  are  to  believe 
his  epitaph,  was  greatly  adverse  to  the  idea  of  any  happiness  in 
the  marriage  state;  yet  how  strange  that  he  should  have  ven 
ture. 1  thrice  upon  it  !  Tin-  natural  conclusion  is  that  the  Hon. 
John  Custis  was  a  singularly  just  and  conscientious  man,  who, 
unwilling  to  do  the  sex  any  wrong  by  a  premature  judgment, 
•lave  them  a  lull  and  fair  trial,  at  the  expense  of  his  own  happi- 
.  and  pronounced  judgment  only  after  repeated  experiments. 
Tradition  has  preserve  1  -'-nie  anecdotes  of  the  sort  of  experience, 
which  he  enjoyed  in  the  marriage  state,  one  of  which  1  will  re 
late.  It  appears  that  he  was  driving  in  his  ancient  coach  toward 


MATUI.MONIAI.   FKI.HITY.  1M 

Cape  Charles,  with  one  of  his  wive,—  an.!,  to  do  him  ju- 
nmst  a^ure  the  render  that,  unlike  our  modern  Urighamites,  lie 
liad  but  one  .it  a  time.     A  matrimonial  discussion  ensued  hetv.  . 
tin-    pair,   which    wanned    as  they   proceeded.      The  lord   grew 
angry,  the  lady  vor'terous. 

"It  was  the  diamond,"  said  one — and  "I  insist,"  quoth  the 
other,  "that  it  was  the  club." 

•    V  -u  will  drive  me  mad  !"  cried  John  Custis. 

"I  should  call  that  admirable  driving?"  retorted  the  wife. 

"By  !"  he  exclaimed,  "if  you  say  another  word  I  will 

drive   d..wn   into   the    sea!"     They    were    even   then   upon  the 

h  ! 

"Another  v.-.M-d  !"  screamed  the,  lady.  "Drive  where  you 
ph-a<e."  she  added  —  "into  the  sea — I  can  go  as  deep  as  yon 
dare  go  any  day  !" 

He  became  furious,  took  her  at  her  word,  and  drove  the  horses 
and  chariot  into  the  ocean.  They  began  to  swim.  He  held  in, 
looked  into  her  face,  and  she  —  laughed  in  his. 

"Why  do  you  stop?"  .she  demanded,  exnltingly  —  not  a  whit 
alarmed. 

"You  are  a  devil  !"  he  exclaimed  Hinging  the  horses  about, 
and  making  for  the  shore  \\ith  all  expedition. 

•  h  !    pooli  !"  laughed   his  tormentor.     "  Learn  from   this 
that  there  is  no  place  where  you  dare  to  go,  where   I  dare  not 

•  uipanv  you." 

••  K\  en  to  h —  !"  he  groaned. 

"  The  onlv  exception."  she  answered  with  a  chuckle — "  there 
my  dear.  1  le;n  e  VMH."  She  had  comjuered.  He  never  dn.ve 
in  at  Cape  Charles  ;jga'm.  but  gmaiu'd  with  the  recollection  (,{' 
the  sc\'-n  y«-;i)>  1'achelor-life  at  Arlington. 

When  this   little  narration  had    ended,  an  intelligent    (lerinau 

of  the    party,  from  wh  B    features    and    silent    tongue  wr 

:   notliing.  now  jdra-a:it]y  Mirj«ri>ed  u>  by  v«dunterr- 

ing   a    le^.-nd    «\'  hi-    «>wn    country  —  a   domestic  legend    of  dark 

and    gloomy  character.      A\  ur   gratification  at    the 

:•.  drew    our   ehairs   into   the   circle,  lighted    fr, 
listened  to  the  foil. .wing  tale,  which.  a<  if  parodying  the  title  of 
a  previous  .storv.  he  called  — 


SulTHWARI)     HO! 


THE  BRIDE  OF  HATE:  OR,  THE  PASSAGE  OF  A  NIGHT. 

"  Thou  and  I  long  since  are  twain  ; 
Nor  think  me  so  unwary  or  accursed. 
To  bring  my  feet  again  into  the  snare 
Where  once  I  have  been  caught ;  I  know  thy  trains, 
Though  dearly  to  my  cost ;  thy  gins  and  toils ; 
Thy  fair  enchanted  cti]>,  and  warbling  charms, 
No  more  on  me  have  power ;  their  force  is  nulled  ; 
So  much  of  adder's  wisdom  I  have  learned, 
To  fence  my  ear  against  thy  sorceries.'' — Samsvn  Agonistet. 


AT  length  I  was  permitted  to  behold  my  benefactress.  The 
messenger  who  brought  my  quarterly  remittance  was  the  bearer 
of  a  letter,  the  first  which  had  ever  been  addressed  by  her  to 
myself,  in  which  this  grateful  permission  was  accorded.  I  ivad 
and  reread  it  a  thousand  times.  My  first  emotions  were  those 
of  pleasure  —  a  pleasure  enhanced  by  the  hope  of  satisfying  a 
curiosity,  which,  awakened  in  my  earliest  boyhood,  had  never 
yet  been  gratified.  Why  had  I  been  so  kindly  treated,  so  well 
provided  for,  so  affectionately  considered,  in  all  the  changes  of 
my  brief  existence,  my  sickness  and  my  health,  by  a  lady  of 
such  high  condition  ?  Why,  again,  should  she,  whose  care  and 
consideration  had  been  so  unvarying  and  decided,  have  shown 
so  little  desire  to  behold  the  object  of  her  bounty?  Years  had 
elapsed  since  1  had  become  her  charge; — years,  to  me,  of  con 
tinned  satisfaction  —  if  one  small  matter  be  excepted.  There 
was  one  alloy  to  my  enjoyments,  which,  in  its  most  rapturous 
moments,  my  boyhood  did  not  cease  to  feel.  It  was  the  mystery 
which  overhung  my  origin.  Who  am  I?  was  the  question,  not 
so  natural  to  the  boy,  yet  natural  enough  to  the  sensitive  and 
thoughtful.  I  was  botli  sensitive  and  thoughtful ;  and  my  boy 
ish  associates,  contrived  on  this  very  subject,  to  keep  me  so. 
Their  inquiries  disordered  me;  their  surprise  at  my  ignorance 
alarmed  me,;  their  occasional  doubts  gave  me  pain,  and  the  Mis 
fit-ions  of  their  minds  readily  passed  into  my  own.  '  Who  am 
1  .''  was  the  perpetual  inquiry  which  my  mind  was  making  of 
itself.  I  could  address  it  nowhere  else.  My  tutor,  with  whom 
I  also  lodged,  declared  hi,  i-iMM-ance  ;  and  1  ht-lieved  him.  He 


1HK    JTOtlTHPUL    \n>TKUV. 

a  man.  to.,  kind,  and  liinisolf  betrayed  too  great 
an  interest  in  the  question,  not  to  have  spoken  sincerely.  He 
saw  inv  disquiet,  and  endeavored  t.»  allay  it;  and  the  endeavor 
added  to  the  burden,  since  it  sufficiently  declared  his  equal  in.i- 
bilitv  and  desire.  His  anxiety,  though  unequal  to,  was  not 
unlike,  my  own.  I  know  not  if  his  conjectures  led  him  to  like 
•lusions  with  myself.  T  only  know  that  mine  were  suffi 
ciently  painful  to  extort  my  tears  and  tremors. 

Vainlv,  at   each    quarterly  return   of  the  agent   of  the   baron- 
did    1  endeavor,  by  question  and  insinuation,  to   gather  from 
him    some   (due  to  the    facts  of  which  I    sought  to  be    possessed. 
!{••    had    been  the    person  who  brought  me  to  the  school — who 
made   the   contract  for  mv  education   and    support  with   my  tu- 
-and  who  alone,  through   each  sueee-<ive   period  of  my  life 
\vard,  had  been  the  medium  for  conveying  the  benefactions 
of  my   friend.     To    whom,  then,  could    I    so    naturally   apply  .' 
whence  could  I  hope  to  obtain   better  information?     Besides,  he 
always   treated    me   with    marked    affection.     T  can  remember, 
when  a  mere  child,  how  frequently  he    took  me  upon    his   knee, 
how  kindly  he  caressed   me,  what   affectionate  words  he   poured 
mv  ear;   the  gentleness  of  his  tones,  the   tendernes-  of  his 
Iffil  '      Nor,  as  1  advanced    in  years,  did    his  attentions  alter, 
though  they  assumed  different  aspects.      He  was  more  reserved, 
though   not  le^s  considerate.      If  he  no  longer  brought  me  • 
he  bi-ought  me  books  ;   if  he  no  longer  took  me  on  his  knee,  ho 
lingered  with  me  long,  and  seemed  to  regret  the  hour  that  com 
manded    his   departure.      There   was   something   too  —  so    I    fan- 
—  in  what  he  said.  did.  and  looked,  that  betrayed  the  fon  : 
m  who  had  known  me  with  a  tender  interest  from  the  brgin- 
jiing.      HN    arm*,  perhaps,  had    dandled    me  in  infancy  ;    lie  had 
mv    follower,  my  attendant.      Hut    why    linger   on    c««njec- 
tnres    such    as    thr-e  .'      Mv  ^peculati-m*    ran  wild,  as    I    thought 
over  tlte  rireum-tanres  of  my  condition,  and    painfully  resolved, 
hour  after  hour,  tl  !'  my  birth. 

From  Bruno,  however.  I    could  obtain  nothing.      When    ques 
tioned,    he     affected     a    stolid     simplicity    which,    even     to    my 
:-h    uudiM-standing.  Drilled    wholly    inron<;-tent  with    hi-.      I 
knew  that    he  \va«-   ti"   f -'I  — -rill   le-s  \va^  I   willing  to  cm 
him  a  churl.      My  ttnrftl.       He  kn-'w      -metl 


184  iHWAi;i>   no! 

He  could  tell  me  much.  Could  he  not  tell  me  all,  and  where 
could  be  the  motive  for  concealment  ?  The  answer  to  this  ques 
tion  inevitably  overwhelmed  me  for  a  time,  until  the  elasticity 
of  the  youthful  heart  could  disencumber  itself  from  the  despond 
ing  tendency  of  a  premature  activity  of  thought.  The  only 
motive  of  concealment  must  be  guilt.  I  was  the  child  of  sin  — 
I  was  the  foredoomed  of  suffering.  My  present  anxieties  gave 
a  gravity  and  intensity  of  expression  to  my  features  which  did 
not  become  one  so  youthful.  I  felt  this  :  I  felt  the  seeming  un- 
naturalness  of  my  looks  nud  carriage ;  but  how  could  I  relieve 
myself?  I  felt  the  pain  of  thought  —  thought  unsatisfied  —  and 
could  already  imagine  how  natural  was  the  doom  which  visited 
the  sins  of  the  lather  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation. 

When  I  failed  to  extort  from  the  cunning  of  Bruno  the  secret 
which  I  was  persuaded  he  yet  possessed,  I  turned  naturally  to 
the  letter  of  my  benefactress.  I  read  and  reread  it,  each  time 
with  the  hope  of  making  some  discoveries — of  finding  some 
slight  clue  to  the  truth  —  which  might  relieve  my  anxiety.  An 
ambiguous  sentence,  the  latent  signification  of  a  passage  (and 
how  many  of  these  did  my  desire  enable  me  to  discover  in  a 
billet  of  twenty  lines?)  awakened  my  hopes  and  caused  my 
heart  to  bound  with  double  pulsation.  But  when  I  had  gone 
through  it  again  and  again,  until  my  head  ached,  and  my  senses 
seemed  to  swim,  I  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  to  myself  that 
there  was  nothing  in  the  epistle  that  I  had  not  readily  compre 
hended  at  the  first.  It  simply  expressed  the  writer's  gratifica 
tion  at  the  improvement  and  good  conduct  of  the  youth  whom 
she  had  thought  proper  to  educate  and  provide  for,  until  man 
hood  should  bring  around  the  period  of  independence;  and 
expressed  —  though  without  emphasis  (and  how  earnestly  did  I 
look  lor  this  quality  in  every  word,  syllable  and  point!)  —  a 
very  natural  desire  to  remark,  with  her  own  eyes  the  personal 
deportment  and  carriage  of  her  protege  —  subjects  which  she, 
•  •<!  t"  i«  --ard  as  equally  important  with  my  intellectual  im 
provement,  and  oj  which  neither  my  letters  nor  my  exen-i-es 
which  wore  duly  transmitted' to  her  by  my  tutor  —  could  give  her 
la'ich,  it'  :niy,  -atislaction.  Failing  to  find  any  occult  signifira- 
ti'-n  in  the  lan^iui^e,  1  next  addressed  my  scrutiny  to  the  styh? 
Biid  manner  of  the  letter — the  handwriting,  the  air,  the  round 


MY-lKkY     AND    DOUBT.  185 

equally  of  letters  and  periods.      How  M»'»II,  where  tlir  1 
and  anx:<  awakened,  will   the  boy  learn  to  tliink,  exam 

ine,  ami  become  analytical  !  To  trace  the  mind  of  the  writer  in 
his  penmanship  is  a  frequent  employment  with  the  idly  curious; 
but  a  deep  interest  led  me  to  the  same  exercise.  The  style  ot 
the  coinpositi  [ear  and  .strong,  but  it  struck  me  as  quite 

too  cold  for  the  benevolent  tenor  which  the  note  conveyed. 
Why  should  one  speak  the  language  of  reserve  whose  deeds 
arc  the  very  perfection  of  generosity?  Why  should  the  tone- 
•'.  igid  where  the  sentiments  are  ns  soft  as  summer  and  sweet 
as  its  own  bird-music  ?  There  was,  to  my  mind,  some  singular 

adiction  in  this.  I  could  very  well  understand  how  one, 
doing,  or  about  to  do,  a  benevolent  or  generous  action,  should 
speak  of  it  as  slightly  and  indifferently  as  possible  —  nay,  should 
avoid  to  speak  of  it  at  all,  if  to  avoid  it  be  within  the  nature  of 
the  occasion;  —  but  this  did  not  apply  to  the  character  of  the 

!e    1    examined.      The  writer   spoke    freely  of  her  friendly 
purposes ;  but  her  language  to  the  recipient  was  cold  and  free/ 
ing.     If  she  had  said   nothing  of  what  she  had  done  and  still 
:.  and   had  spoken  to   me  in  more  elaborate   tones,  I 
should   have  been  better  satisfied.     But  there  was  not  an  unne- 

i\  word  in  the  whole  epistle — not  one  which  1  could  fancy 

put  in  at  the  moment  when   the  current  of  feeling,  being  at   its 

ht,  forbade  the  reserve  of  prudence,  or  the  cautious  consid- 

eratene--   ..f   deliberate   and    calculating    purposes.     There  was 

evidently  considerable  pain*  taken  —  so  my  youthful  judgment 
inferred  —  in  the  reserved  language  and  manner  of  this  letter; 
and  why  should  my  benefactress,  moved  only  in  what  she  had 
done  by  a  high  but  ordinary  .sentiment  of  charity,  stri\. 
exjue-s  herself  in  such  language  t«»  a  boy?  This  question  led 
me  into  newer  intiiearies,  from  which.  1  need  M-arcelv  add.  1 
did  not  readily  extricate  my>elf.  The  penmanship  of  the  writei 
did  not  call  f..r  a  h-->  earnest  examination  than  the  language 
vh'.eh  she  employed.  It  was  evidently  feminine  in  its  charac- 
ut  how  masculine  in  its  tone.  Tin-  utter  absence  of  orna 
ment  was  a  deli.-ieney,  \\hich  struck  me  as  forming  a  surprising 

.re    in   the    handwriting  of  a  lady.     She   used   capitals  « 
stantly  in  beginning  words  a>  well  a-  <  ,ipi 

tuK  exhibited  the  cold  (loth  :-«ifthe  Roman,  rather  thai 


18G  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

the  lively  ornamented  outlines  of  the  Italian  letters.  The  T  of 
her  signature,  for  example,  was  a  simple  perpendicular  stroke 
carried  much  below  the  line,  with  a  thick 'heavy  cap  upon  it, 
having  a  dip  at  each  end  almost  as  great  as  that  of  an  umbrella. 
The  letters  were  remarkably  clear,  but  how  irregular !  They 
seemed  to  have  been  written  under  a  determination  to  write, 
even  against  desire  and  will  —  dashed  spasmodically  down  upon 
the  paper  not  coherent,  and  leaving  wide  gaps  between  the  sev 
eral  words,  into  which  an  ingenious  hand  might  readily  have 
introduced  other  words,  such,  as  I  fondly  conjectured,  might 
have  given  to  the  composition  that  friendly  warmth  and  interest 
in  my  fate,  which  it  seemed  to  me  it  needed  more  than  anything 
besides.  My  grand  conclusion,  on  finishing  my  study,  was  this, 
that  the  writer  had  taken  some  pains  to  write  indifferently  ;  that 
the  studied  coldness  of  the  letter  was  meant  to  conceal  a  very 
active  warmth  and  feeling  in  the  writer ;  and  (though  I  may  not 
be  able  to  define  the  sources  of  this  conjecture  so  well  as  the 
rest)  that  this  feeling,  whatever  might  be  its  character,  was  not 
such  as  could  compel  the  admiration  or  secure  the  sympathy  of 
mine.  This  conclusion  may  seem  strange  enough,  when  it  is 
recollected  that  the  baroness  was  my  benefactress,  who  had 
always  carefully  anticipated  my  wishes;  provided  for  my 
wants ;  afforded  me  the  best  education  which  the  condition  of 
the  palatinate  afforded ;  and,  in  all  respects,  had  done,  through 
charity,  those  kindly  deeds  which  could  not  have  been  exacted 
by  justice.  The  next  moment  I  reproached  myself  for  ingrati 
tude —  I  prayed  for  better  thoughts  and  more  becoming  feel 
ings —  but  my  prayer  was  not  vouchsafed  me.  The  conclusion 
which  I  have  already  declared  had  taken  a  rooted  possession  of 

my  mind,  ami  I  commenced  my  journey  to  the  castle  of  T 

with  a  mixed  feeling  of  equal  awe,  anxiety,  and  expectation. 


n. 

I  NOW  remarked  some  alteration  in  the  looks  and  bearing 
of  my  companion,  Bruno,  which  also  surprised  me  and  awakened 
my  curiojjty.  Hitherto.  In-  had  always  seemed  a  person  of  lit 
tle  {.letenMoii,  having  few  objects,  and  those  of  an  humble  class; 
a  men-  yeoman  ;  a  -o.»d  ret;uner,  in  which  capacity  he  served 


BRUNO.  187 


at  T  -  castle;    modest  in    his  deportment,  Without 

of  any  kind  ;  and,  in  all  respects,  a  very  worthy  personage.  I 
J  do  n«»t  mean  to  say  that  lie  now  assumed  the  appearance  of 
one  who  had  become  less  so  ;  but  he  certainly  was  no  longer  the 
quiet,  Mihdued  and  somewhat  melancholy  man  whom  I  had 
heretofore  been  wont  to  find  him.  A  certain  boyish  light' 
of  manner  and  gayety  of  speech  distinguished  him  as  we  rode 
•her;  —  and,  though  these  qualities  might  not  be  altogether 
inconsistent  with  what  is  becoming  in  a  man  of  forty,  yet  were 
they,  at  the  same  time,  very  far  from  corresponding  with  the 
usual  characteristics  which  he  had  borne  in  onr  previous  inti 
macy.  Until  now  I  should  have  called  him  a  dull  person,  pos 
sessed  of  good,  benevolent  feelings  ;  rather  grave  and  sombre 
in  his  discourse;  and,  altogether,  having  no  qualities  to  recom 
mend  him  to  a  higher  destination  than  that  which  he  filled  in 
the  castle  of  the  baroness.  Now,  he  suddenly  liecame  the  man 
of  spirit  ;  his  words  were  mirthful,  his  voice  musical,  his  opin 
ions  playful  and  even  witty;  and,  not  unfreqnently.  he  would 
burst  into  little  catches  of  song,  that  sounded  unpleasantly  in 
my  ears,  since  I  could  neither  conjure  up  cause  of  merriment  in 
my  own  mind,  nor  conjecture  the  sources  for  so  much  of  it  in 
his.  Nor  did  this  conduct  seem  the  result  of  simple  natural 
lei-lings  —  the  play  of  health  in  an  exercise  which  was  agree 
able,  or  of  sensations  which  lie  beneath  the  surface  only,  and  obe 
dient  to  the  summons  of  any  cheerful  wayfarer,  who,  having  no 
Caret!  i.-.  .susceptible  «>f  the  most  ordinary  pleasures.  There  was 
an  air  of  positive  exultation  in  his  looks,  a  triumphant  consci»u»- 
inner,  which  he  vainly  strove  to  hide,  and  in  the 
business  of  which  I  quickly  inferred,  from  his  frequent  smile 
and  searching  ga/.e  upon  me,  1  myself  bad  no  little  interest. 
When  I  commented  up-m  his  gayety  and  spirit,  he  would  sud 
denly  control  himself,  relapse,  as  it  were  by  an  effort,  into  his 
<  :it  gravity,  and  possibly  mutter  a  lew  clumsy  words  of 
denial.  Hut  his  struggle  t«>  contain  himself  did  not  long  con 
tinue,  and  before  u  e  n-aehed  the  end  >f  our  journey,  he  had 
fully  surrendered  himself  to  the  joyous  mood  which  possessed 
him  -m  our  setting  out. 

Having  no  knowledge  of  Castle  T  -  ,  I   endeavored    by   a 
of  direct  questions  to  obtain  from  him  as  much  ini'oimatior 


188  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

as  possible  in  respect  to  it  and  the  lady  thereof.  He  seemed  to 
be  surprised  at  the  avowal  of  my  ignorance  on  the  subject  of  the 
ca-tle,  and  surprised  me  even  more  by  expressing  his  wonder  at 
the  fact;  concluding  by  assuring  me  that  I  was  born  in  it — at 
least  he  had  been  told  so.  His  mention  of  my  place  of  birth 
necessarily  provoked  an  eager  renewal  of  my  old  inquiries,  but 
to  these  I  obtained  no  satisfactory  answers.  Enough,  however, 
was  shown  me  by  what  he  said,  and  still  more  by  what  he 
looked,  that  he  knew  much  more  than  he  was  willing,  or  per 
mitted,  to  reveal.  His  reserve  increased  the  mystery ;  for  if 
any  of  my  acquaintance  had  ever  convinced  me  of  their  unequiv 
ocal  regard,  it  was  my  old  friend  Bruno.  That  he  should  know, 
yet  withhold,  the  secret,  the  desire  for  which  was  making  my 
cheek  paler  every  day,  and  filling  my  heart  with  the  gloom  that 
seldom  afflicts  the  young,  argued,  to  my  understanding,  a  pain 
ful  history,  which,  perhaps,  when  heard,  I  should  wish  for  ever 
buried  in  oblivion.  When  I  inquired  after  my  benefactress,  as 
I  had  frequently  done  before,  his  brow  Became  clouded,  and  it 
was  only  at  such  moments  that  he  seemed  to  part  easily  with 
that  gayoty  of  manner  which  had  striven  to  cheer  our  tedious 
journey.  Stern  glances  shot  from  beneath  his  bushy  gray  eye 
brows,  and  his  lips  became  compressed,  as  closely  as  if  some 
resolute  purpose  of  hostility  was  gathering  in  his  mind. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Bruno,  that  you  love  me  no  longer.  You 
will  not  answer  my  questions  —  questions  which  seriously  affect 
my  happiness  —  and  yet  it  is  clear  to  me  that  you  can  do  so. 
Why  is  this?  Why  should  there  be  any  mystery  in  the  case 
of  one  so  poor,  so  humble,  such  a  dependant  as  myself?" 

"  Love  you,  Herman  !  Do  I  not  love  you  !"  he  exclaimed  ; 
and  I  could  see  a  big  tear  gathering  within  his  eye,  as  he  re 
plied  in  reproachful  accents  —  "Ah,  my  son,  you  know  not  how 
much  I  love  you  ;  you  know  not  now — perhaps  you  will  shortly 
know  —  and  when  you  do,  you  will  see  that  what  I  have  with 
held  from  you  was  wisely  withheld.  There  is  a  season  given 
for  truth,  Herman,  and  if  Bruno  forbears  the  truth  in  your  ears, 
it  is  only  that  he  may  wait  for  a  season." 

"But  why  should  you  not  tell  me  of  the  baroness?  I  should 
like  to  form  some  idea  of,  and  to  love  her,  before  I  see  her." 

"Then  you  do  not  love  her?"  ho  demanded  with  some  quick 


QUl  !; 

;  and  I  could  pen-rive   a   smile  gleam  out  upon  his  counte 
nance,   in   which   T   fancied   there  was   even    an    expression    of 
hitter  satisfaction.      His   question   confused   me —  it    conveyed    a 
acli  which  he  certainly  never  intrndrd.    Could  it  be  possible 
that  I  did  not  love  my  benefactress —  or.e  to  whom    I    owed  so 
much — to  whom,  indeed,  I  owed   everything?      I  blushed,  hesi- 
!,  stammered,  and.  b. -f..iv  1  could  reply,  he  again  spoke,  and 
anticipated  the  feeble  excuse  which  I  was  preparing. 

••Rut  how  should  you  love  her?"  he  exclaimed,  in  tones 
rather  of  soliloquy  than  conversation.  "How,  indeed!  It 
would  have  heen  wonderful,  indeed,  if  you  did." 

ted  himself  in  the  manner  of  one  who  thinks  he 
has  said  too  much.  The  true  feeling  with  which  he  spok<  I 
gathered  rather  from  the  tone  of  his  utterance  than  from  what 
he  said.  The  words,  however,  might  have  been  made  to  apply 
much  more  innocently  than  the  emphasis  permitted  me  to  apply 
them. 

llo\v  !  what  mean  you,  Bruno  ?"  I  demanded,  with  an  a^tou 
ishment  which    was    sufficiently  obvious.      He    endeavored    to 
evade  the  effects  of  his  error  with  the  adroitness  of  a  politician. 

••  H'.w  >  .mid  you  he  expected  to  love  a  person  whom  you  had 
D6T6I  x-eii —  whom  you  do  not  know — of  whom,  indeed,  you 
know  nothing  ?" 

••  Except  hy  her  bounties,  Bruno." 

it-,  these  demand  gratitude,  but   seldom  awaken  love,  un 
less  by  otho  ;i.ss, , nations.     Mere  charity,  gifts  and  favors,  have 
but    little    value    unless   the   donor  smiles   while   he   is  giving  — 
.ks  kind  words,  and   looks   affection   and    regard.      The    har- 
~s  has  erred,  it'  your  affection  was  an  object  in  her  sight,  in 
not  personally  br.stowing  ln-r  bounty  and  showing,  to  your  own 
e\« 's,  the  ci'Mcern  which  .-he  felt  in  your  success,  and  the  benev 
olence    she    intended.      Without    these,  her   bounty  could   scarce 
re   your   love;    and  the  feeling  which   dictates  it  might  have, 
no   such    motive    for   its    exercise  —  might   bo   dictated  by  pride, 
vanity,  the  ostentation  of  a  virtue;    or,  indeed,  might  be  the  con 
sequence  of'  a  simpi,.  Benae  of  d- 

"  Duty  !  How  si,, ,uld  it  be  the  duty  of  the  h;ir--uess  to  pro- 
vide  for  my  support  and  edi, 

••  N..\,  1   -ay  not  that  Mich  is  the  case.      1  simply  suggest  on* 


190  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

of  the  causes  of  that  favor  which  men  are  very  apt,  when  (ley 
name,  to  confound  with  benevolence." 

"  But  why  should  you  speak  as  if  it  were  doubtful  that  the 
baroness  really  desires  to  secure  my  affection  ?  Do  you  know, 
Bruno,  that  she  does  not  ?" 

"  He  or  she  who  aspires  to  secure  the  affection  of  another  will 
scarcely  succeed  by  the  mere  act  of  giving  in  charity.  Th« 
gift  must  be  accompanied  by  other  acts,  other  expressions, 
which  shall  exhibit  the  attachment  which  the  giver  desires  to 
awaken.  It  must  be  shown  that  there  is  a  pleasure  felt  in  the 
benevolence,  that  the  heart  which  bestows  enjoys  a  kindred  sat 
isfaction  with  that  which  receives.  As  for  any  knowledge  on 
the  subject  of  the  feelings  of  the  baroness,  I  pretend  none.  I 
but  state  a  general  truth  when  I  say,  that,  if  her  object  had 
been  to  make  you  love  her,  she  should  have  carried  her  gifts 
in  person,  shown  herself  frequently  to  you,  counselled  you  from 
her  own  lips,  exhorted  your  industry  and  diligence,  prompted 
your  ambition,  cheered  your  labors,  and  encouraged  all  your 
honorable  desires." 

"Ah,  if  she  had  done  this,  Bruno  ?" 

"  Doubtless,  you  would  then  have  loved  her,  and  then  she 
would  have  been — " 

He  paused  abruptly ;  the  same  stern  expression  of  counte 
nance  denoted  the  suppression  of  a  sentiment,  such  as  more  than 
once  before,  during  our  dialogue,  had  seemed  to  fill  his  mind  with 
bitterness.  I  eagerly  demanded  of  him  the  conclusion  of  the  sen 
tence,  and,  with  a  smile  which  was  half  a  sneer,  he  replied :  — 

"Then  she  would  have  been  —  secure  of  your  love." 

I  smiled  also,  and,  perhaps,  a  like  sarcastic  sneer  passed  over 
my  own  lips,  as  he  came  to  this  lame  and  impotent  conclusion. 

"  Bruno,  you  deceive  me,  and  possibly  wrong  my  benefac 
tress.  You  know  more  than  you  will  tell  me.  There  is  some 
stran«r<'  mystery  in  this  business — " 

"Which  I  believe,  Herman,  but — " 

"Which  you  know,  Bruno." 

••  Perhaps  so  ;  but  let  me  ask  you,  Herman,  my  dear  Herman, 
do  you  believe  me  to  be  your  friend  (" 

-I  do." 
'  That  1  have  ever  shown  you  kindness,  watched  over  you. 


COUNM'.ls  OF    1  \i'i:i:i:  I'.'l 

counselled   yon,  guided   you,  protec:-  IflOfl    -'ill.   i"   short, 

that  a  father  o»uld  have  doH€  for  the  >«>n  h«:  m«»t   fa 

"Truly,  good   Bruno,   I   believe,  I   think,  I  know,  that  you 
have  been  all  this  to  me.     Y«»u  have  supplied  those  performan- 
uhich,  it'  your  thinking  be  right,  the  henevolence  of  the 
baroness  imprudently  omitted." 

"  Knou-h.  Herman.  Believe  then  a  little  more.  Believe 
that  he  who  has  been  friendly  and  faithful  hitherto,  without 
hesitation,  without  exception,  without  going  back,  and  without 
sign  of  reluctance,  will  still  be  true,  faithful,  and  affectionate. 
There  is  >.unething  that  1  might  say,  but  not  wi*ely,  not  benefi 
cially  f.»r  YOU,  and  therefore  I  forbear  to  say  it.  But  the  time 
will  come.  I  think  it  will  come  very  soon,  and  all  my  knowl. 
thnll  then  be  yours.  Meanwhile,  be  patient  and  learn  the  first 
best  less-m  of  youth  —  learn  to  wait!  By  learning  to  wait,  you 
learn  to  endure,  and  in  learning  to  endure,  you  learn  one  of  the 
principal  arts  of  conquest.  I  speak  to  you  the  lesson  of  experience, 
of  my  own  experience.  Never  did  a  young  man  pass  through 
a  more  trying  term  of  endurance  than  myself.  I  have  sup 
pressed  my  nature,  stilled  the  passions  of  my  heart,  kept  down 
niggles  of  my  soul  which,  as  they  would  have  vainly 
striven  for  any  n  1«  M-.  .  were  premature;  and,  after  twenty 
years  of  bondage  I  am  at  length  free.  Your  visit  to  the  castle 
of  T ,  is  the  epoch  of  my  emancipation." 


11  VVIM;  thus  spoken,  Bruno  became  suddenly  silent,  and  no 
effort  that  I  could  make  could  induce  him  to  resume  the  conver- 
Mttioii.      Vet,    how    had    this    conversation    excited    me!  —  whafr 
»mmotion  did  it  occasion  am«»n^  the  thoughts  and   fan- 
f  my  mind.      Where    had   he   obtained  the  power  to  speak 
with  >o  much   authority.  %\..n!s  M  full  of  animation,  thoughts  SO 
far  beyond    his   seeming   condition'*      His  words  seemed   to   lift 
ami    expand    himself.       UK    eye.    glittered    with    the    lire    of   an 
eagle's   as   he    spoke,  his  lip  ijuivered  with   equal  pride   and   en- 
thnsi.-ism,  and  his  form.'1  ,!  t--\\  er  al-fr  in  ill 

majesty  of  a  tried  and  familiar  superiority.     The  mystery  which 
entrapped   my  OWH    f  '  >d   of  a   sudden   to   envelop    tin's 


192  invAKD  HD ! 

man  also.  He  had  dropped  words  which  indicated  an  alliance 
of  our  destinies,  and  what  could  he  mean,  when,  at  the  close  of 

this  speech,  he  said,  that  my  visit  to  the  castle  of  T was  the 

epoch  of  his  emancipation.  The  words  rang  in  my  ears  with  the 
imposing  solemnity  of  an  oracle ;  but,  though  I  felt,  in  vain  did 
I  strive  to  find  something  in  them  beyond  their  solitary  import. 
They  increased  the  solemnity  and  anxiety  of  those  feelings 
which  oppressed  me  on  my  nearer  approach  to  the  gloomy  tow 
ers  of  T castle.  As  we  came  in  sight  of  them  I  could 

perceive  that  the  countenance  of  my  companion  assumed  an  ex 
pression  of  anxiety  also.  A  dark  cloud,  slowly  gathering,  hung 
about  his  brows,  and  at  length  spread  over  and  seemed  to  settle 
permanently  upon  his  face.  He  now  seldom  spoke,  and  only  in 
answer  to  my  inquiries  and  in  monosyllables.  Something  of 
this,  in  the  case  of  each  of  us,  may  nave  been  derived  from  the 
sombre  and  gloomy  tone  of  everything  in  the  immediate  neigh 
borhood  of  this  castle.  The  country  was  sterile  in  the  last 
degree.  We  had  travelled  the  whole  day  and  had  scarcely  en 
countered  a  human  being.  But  few  cottages  skirted  the  cheer 
less  and  little-trodden  pathway  over  which  we  came,  and  a 
general  stuntedness  of  vegetation  and  an  equally  general  pov 
erty  of  resource  in  all  respects,  fully  accounted  to  us  for,  and 
justified  the  absence  of,  inhabitants.  Bruno,  however,  informed 
me  that  the  country  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake  on  which  the 
castle  stood,  and  from  which  it  derived  its  resources,  was  as  fer 
tile  and  populous  as  this  was  the  reverse.  A  succession  of  little 
hills,  rugged  and  precipitous,  which  were  strewed  thickly  over 
our  pathway,  added  to  the  difficulties  of  our  approach,  and  the 
cheerlessness  of  the  prospect.  The  castle  was  gray  with  years 
—  one  portion  "of  it  entirely  dismantled  and  deserted  —  the  resi 
due  in  merely  habitable  condition  —  the  whole  presenting  such 
a  pile  as  would  be  esteemed  a  ruin  among  a  people  of  roman 
tic  temperament,  but  carefully  avoided  by  the  superstitious  as 
better  calculated  for  the  wanderings  of  discontented  ghosts,  than 
as  a  dwelling  for  the  living.  The  wall  which  was  meant  to  pro 
tect  it  from  invasion  on  the  side  we  came,  was  in  a  worse  state 
of  dilapidation  than  even  the  deserted  portions  of  the  castle,  and 
we  entered  the  enclosure  through  a  fissure,  and  over  the  over 
thrown  masses  of  lime  and  stone  by  which  it  had  been  originally 


THK    f'ASTLK    AND    THE   LADY.  198 

filled.  There  were  too  many  of  these  openings  to  render  formal 
ports  or  pateways  necessary.  Within  the  enclosure  I  had  an  op 
portunity  to  see  how  much  more  deM>late  was  the  prospect  the 
iu-Mr*»r  I  approached  it.  Its  desolation  increased  the  feelings  of 
awe  with  which  the  inv>tcry  of  my  own  fate,  the  ambiguous  words 
and  manner  of  Bruno,  and  the  vague  conjectures  I  had  formed  in 
reference  to  my  benefactress,  had  necessarily  filled  my  mind  ; 
and  I  was  conscious,  on  first  standing  in  the  presence  of  the  bar- 
oneM».  of  far  more  apprehension  than  gratitude  —  an  appreheu- 
rc'ljtable  to  my  manhood,  and  only  to  be  excused 
and  accounted  for,  by  the  secluded  and  unworldly  manner  in 
which  my  education  had  been  conducted. 

The  baroness  met  me  with  a  smile,  and  such  a  smile!  —  I 
could  not  comprehend  its  language.  It  was  clearly  not  that  of 
affection;  it  did  not  signify  hatred  —  shall  I  say  that  it  was  the 
desperate  effort  of  one  who  seeks  to  look  benevolence  while 
feeling  scorn  ;  that  it  was  a  smile  of  distrust  and  bitterness,  the 
expression  of  a  feeling  which  seemed  to  find  the  task  of  receiving 
mo  too  offensive  and  unpleasant  even  to  suffer  the  momentary 
disguise  of  hypocrisy  and  art.  I  was  confused  and  stupefied. 
1  turned  for  explanation  to  Bruno,  who  had  accompanied  me  into 
the  presence  ;  and  the  expression  in  his  face  did  not  less  surprise 
me  than  that  in  the  face  of  the  barom---.  His  ryes  were  fixed 
upon  hers,  and  his  looks  wore  an  air  of  pride  and  exultation  ; 
not  dissimilar  to  that  which  1  have  already  described  as  distin- 
pii.-hing  them  while,  our  dialogue  was  in  progress.  There  was 
something  also  of  defiance  in  his  glance,  while  gazing  on  the 
baroness,  which  puzzled  me  the  more.  Her  eyes  were  now 
turned  from  me  to  him. 

"  And  this  then  is  tin the  y«>uth —  the "  She  paused. 

I  could  no  longer  misunderstand  those  accents.  They  were  those 
of  vexation  and  annoyance. 

"  The  same !"  exclaimed  Bruno,  "  the  same,  my  lady,  and  a 
noble  youth  you  see  he  is;  well  \\nrthy  of  your  patronage,  your 
love!" 

There  was  a  taunting  asperity  in  his  tones  which  struck  me 
painfully,  and  at  length  stimulated  me  t"  utf»'iamv  and  actimi. 
1  rushed  forward,  threw  myself  at  her  feet,  and,  while  I  pmirrd 
forth  my  incoherent  acknowledgment*  f"i  h*»r  benefactions,  would 


SOUTHWARD    HO ! 

have  Ho.ixed  ami  carried  her  hand  to  my  lips.  But  she  shrink 
hack  with  an  impulse  if  possible  more  rapid  than  my  own,  her 
hands  uplifted,  the  palms  turned  upon  me  as  if  beckoning  me 
away,  her  head  averted,  and  her  whole  attitude  and  manner  that 
of  on<'  suffering  contact  with  the  thing  it  loathes. 

No.  no  !     None  of  this.     Take  him  away.     Take  him  away.'* 

I  rose  upon  my  feet  and  turned  to  Bruno.  His  form  was 
erect,  his  eye  was  full  of  a  stern  severity  as  he  gazed  upon  the 
baroness,  whk-h  seemed  to  me  strangely  misplaced  when  I  con 
sidered  his  relative  position  with  the  noble  lady  to  whom  I  owed 
KO  much,  and,  in  respect  to  whom  it  would  seem  so  unaccountable, 
so  unnatural.  Bruno  paused  and  did  not  regard  me  as  I  approach 
ed  him.  His  eyes  were  only  fixed  upon  his  mistress.  She  re 
peated  her  injunction,  with  a  wild  and  strange  addition  :  — 

"  Have  you  not  had  enough  ?  Would  you  drive  me  mad  I 
Away  with  him.  Away  !" 

"  Come  !"  he  exclaimed,  turning  to  me  slowly,  but  with  an 
eye  still  fixed  upon  the  baroness,  whose  face  was  averted  from 
us.  He  muttered  something  further  which  I  did  not  understand, 
and  we  were  about  to  depart,  he  frowning  as  if  with  indignation, 
and  I  trembling  with  equal  apprehension  and  surprise. 

"  Stay!"  she  exclaimed,  "where  would  you  take  him,  Bruno?" 

"  To  the  hall  below,  your  ladyship." 

"  Right,  see  to  his  wants.  His  chamber  is  in  the  northern 
turret." 

14  There  !"  was  the  abrupt  exclamation  of  Bruno. 

"  There  !  There  !"  was  all  the  reply  ;  a  reply  rather  shrieked 
than  spoken,  and  the  manner  of  which,  as  well  as  the  look  of 
Bruno,  when  he  beheld  it,  convinced  me  that  there  was  some 
thing  occult  and  mysterious  in  the  purport  of  her  command. 
Nothing  more,  however,  was  spoken  by  either  the  baroness  or 
himself,  and  we  left  the  presence  in  silence  together. 

IV. 

WE  descended  to  the  salle  a  manger,  where  we  found  a  boun 
tiful  repast  prepared.  But  neither  of  us  seemed  disposed  to  eat. 
though  the  long  interval  of  ahhtinence  since  the  morning  meal, 
would,  at  another  time,  and  under  different  circumstances,  have 


TO  KR.  195 

jti«rikit>d  a  vigorous  appetite  and  an  enormous  con>umption  of 
tin-  various  viands  before  us.  I  remarked  one  thing1  in  the  man- 
HLr«Mnont  of  the  feast  which  oecar-ioned  my  astonishment.  There 
was  a  regular  taster  of  the  several  dishes,  who  went  through  his 
office  brfore  Bruno  invited  me  to  eat.  I  had  heard  and  read  of 
this  o  filer  r  and  the  objects  of  tliis  precaution  in  the  history  of 
and  barbarous  centuries,  hut  that  he  should  he  thought 
necessary  in  «  modern  household  and  in  a  Christian  country  was 
a  subject  of  very  natural  wonder;  and  I  did  not  hesitate  to  say 
as  much  to  my  companion  and  friend.  But  my  comment  only 
met  his  smile  ;  he  did  not  answer  me,  but  contented  himself  with 
assuring:  me  that  I  might  eat  in  safety.  He  even  enlarged  on 
Hence  of  some  of  the  dishes,  most  of  which  were  new  to 
rne.  I  did  little  more  in  the  progress  of  the  repast  than  follow 
the  example  of  the  taster,  who,  his  office  over,  had  instantly 
retired,  but  not  before  casting  a  glance,  as  I  fancied,  of  particular 
meaning  toward  Bruno,  who  returned  it  with  one  similarly  sig 
nificant  !  I  observed  that  all  the  retainers  exhibited  a  singular 

r>e  of  deference  to  this  man,  that  his  wishes  seemed  antici 
pated,  and  his  commands  were  instantly  obeyed.  Yet  he  spoke 
to  them  rather  in  the  language  of  an  intimate  companion  than  a 
master.  II.-  wa*  ioeo>(.  and  familiar,  made  inquiries  into  their 
B  concerns,  and  seemed  to  have  secured  their  affections 
entirely.  It  was  not  long  before  I  discovered  that  this  was 
tin-  < •••••.  I'pim  the  wile  a  manger,  as  neither  of  us  cared 

it,  we  retired  after  a  brief  delay,  and,  leaving  the  castle, 
•merged  by  a  low  postern  into  an  open  court  which  had  once 
been  enclosed  and  covered,  but  of  the  enehxuiv  nf  which  only 
one  section  of  tlie  wall  remained,  connecting  the.  main  building 
with  a  sort  of  tower,  which,  as  I  afterward  found,  contained  the 
iiparfme;  .-(1  me  by  the  baroness  To  this  tower  Bruno 

now  conducted  me.      ('iv.sMiiir  tin-  c..ur!.  \\  e  rnten-d  a  -mall  door 
at    the    foot  of  the  tower,  which    my  conductor   carefullv  1 
behind    him.      We  then  a-ccndc-d    -i  narrow  and    deeavini:    flijrht 

tejW,  which,  hrin.ir  circular,  gradually  conducted  us  to  ail 
upper  chamber  ol'  greater  height  from  the  ground  than,  looking 
upward  from  below,  I  had  at  first  esteemed  it.  This  chamber 
was  in  very  good  repair,  and  at  one  time  seemed,  indeed,  to 
have  been  very  sumptuously  furnished.  There  was,  how. 


50 1"  Tli  \VAitD    HO  ! 

an  air  of  coldness  and  damp  about  the  apartment  that  impressed 
me  with  unpleasant  sensations.  But  a  single  window,  and  that 
a  small  one,  yielded  the  daylight  from  the  eastern  sky,  while 
two  small  narrow  doors,  that  appeared  to  have  been  shut  up  for 
a  century  and  more,  occupied  opposite  sections  of  the  northern 
and  southern  walls.  The  little  aperture  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  was  closed  by  a  falling  trap,  and  fastened  or  not  at  the 
pleasure  of  the  incumbent,  by  a  bolt  in  the  floor  above.  A 
massive  bedstead,  of  carved  columns  and  antique  pattern,  stood 
almost  beside  the  trap,  making  flight  easy  by  that  means  in  the 
event  of  such  a  proceeding  seeming  desirable.  A  venerable 
table,  of  the  same  style  and  century  as  the  bedstead,  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  apartment,  sumptuously  covered  with  a  rich 
darnask  cloth,  the  massive  fringes  of  which  swept  the  floor  around 
it.  The  solitary  window  of  the  apartment  was  shaded  by  a  cur 
tain  of  similar  hue,  but  of  softer  and  finer  material.  But  the  uphol 
stery  and  decorations  of  my  chamber,  or  my  prison — for  such  it 
seemed  with  all  its  decaying  splendor — called  for  little  of  my 
notice  then,  and  deserves  not  that  of  my  reader.  A  casual  glance 
sufficed  to  show  me  the  things  of  which  1  have  spoken,  and  I 
do  not  think  I  bestowed  upon  them  more.  There  were  matters 
far  more  serious  in  my  mind  and  important  to  my  interest.  Two 
stools  which  the  apartment  contained,  afforded  seats  to  Bruno 
and  myself;  and  1  scarcely  allowed  myself  to  be  seated  before 
I  demanded  an  explanation  of  the  strange  scene  through  which 
we  had  gone  with  my  benefactress. 

"  A  little  longer,  dear  Herman  —  be  patient  a  little  longer — 
and  then  you  shall  have  no  cause  to  complain  of  me.  I  shall  strive 
soon  to  convince  you  of  my  wishes  for  your  happiness  and  welfare, 
and,  perhaps,  of  the,  continued  labors  which  I  have  undergone, 
having  your  fortunes  in  view  only.  Yet,  I  do  not  promise  you  to 
unfold  the  mystery  entirely,  or  even  partially,  which  enwraps  this 
ca-tle  ami  its  unhappy  mistress.  IVrliaps  I  can  not.  I  confess 
IV'-'-ly  there  is  sonit  tiling  beyond  my  knowledge,  though  not,  I 
ti  u>t,  beyond  my  power.  Should  1  succeed  in  what  I  purpose, 
and  this  very  night  may  show,  then  may  you  expect  such  a 
revelation  as  will  satisfy  your  curiosity  and  make  you  better 
content  with  your  position.  Of  one  thing  I  may  assure  you; 
your  fortunes  are  better  than  you  think  them,  the  prospect  is 


WAHNINC-  I»K  I>A\I;KK.  107 

favorable  before  you,  anil  tin-  time  is  not  far  distant  when  you 
may  realize  ray  hopes  in  ymir  behalf,  and  reap  some  of  the 
fruits  of  my  toils.  Hut  I  mu^t  leave  you  now.  Nay,  do  not 
stay  me,  and  do  not  seek  to  question  me  further.  I  can  not 
now,  I  will  not,  speak  more  on  this  subject.  It  is  your  interest 
that  calls  me  from  you." 

I  would  have  detained  him  for  further  questions,  spite  of  his 
admonition,  hut  he  broke  away  from  me,  and  was  hurrying 
through  the  small  southern  door  of  the  apartment  when  he  sud 
denly  stepped. 

"  Herman,  I  had  almost  forgotten  a  most  important  matter. 
I  must  give,  you  some  cautions.  This  door,  you  perceive,  has  a 
bar,  which  drops  within  these  fissures  of  the  wall  and  secures  it 
thoroughly.  Yon  will  close  it  after  me,  and  keep  it  fast  at  all 
hours.  Do  not  open  it  to  any  summons  unless  it  be  mine,  and 
even  my  voice,  or  what  may  seem  to  be  my  voice,  must  not  per 
suade  you  to  violate  this  caution.  When  I  desire  entrance,  you 
will  hear  these  sounds,  but  no  words" — here  he  breathed,  rather 
than  whistled,  a  slight  note,  interrupted  by  a  singular  quaver, 
which  Memed  the  very  soul  of  mystery  — "  above  all,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  let  no  woman's  voice  persuade  you  to  undo  the  bar." 

41  But  suppose  the  baroness  should  send  ?" 

"  Do  not  you  hear.  She  may  send — nay,  I  am  sure  she 
will  —  *he  may  come  herself.' 

•'  But  I  must  then  open  ?" 

••  N ...  not  then  !     Not  for  your  life." 

•  I  la,  Bruno  !     What  may  this  mean  ?" 

••  Inquire  not  now,  my  son;  but  believe  me  that  my  precau 
tions  are  not  idle,  not  unnecessary.  I  live  but  to  serve  and  save 
you." 

ive  me  !      Yon  confound  me,  Bruno." 

•  Ktt|  I    have  f-aved    y.m  until   now,  and   require  n.. thing  but 
your  obedience  to   be   y«»ur    pns,.r\«-r  still.      Do  as    1    a-k.  as   I 
command    you!    ami    all    will    l>e,    well,    and    we   shall    be    tri 
umphant." 

1 1  •  words  were  no  less  strange  to  me  than  had  been  those  of 
the  baron  •*!,  ami  what  was  more  strange  than  all  was  that 
tudden  air  of  authority,  parental  indeed,  which  he  now  assumed 
for  the  first  time.  I  did  not.  at  the  moment,  feel  the  greater 


HO! 

singularity  of  my  own  tacit  obedience,  without  disputation,  to 
tin-  authority  of  this  man.  I  acted,  all  the  while,  as  if  under 
the  sway  of  an  instinct.  His  eye,  in  the  next  moment,  gave  a 
hasty  glance  to  the  solitary  window  of  my  chamber  and  to  the 
door  in  the  southern  wall  of  the  apartment. 

"  That  door  is  almost  unapproachable,"  he  said,  seeing  that 
my  eye  followed  the  direction  of  his ;  "  it  leads  to  an  abandoned 
terrace  which  overhangs  the  lake.  The  portion  of  wall  which 
connected  it  with  the  castle  is  almc  st  in  ruins.  Still  it  may  be 
well  that  you  should  keep  it  bolted.  The  window,  which  is 
grated  and  inaccessible,  will  yet  afford  you  a  pretty  view  of  the 
neighboring  mountains ;  these,  as  there  is  a  lovely  moon  to 
night,  you  will  be  able  to  distinguish  readily.  Should  the  hours 
seem  tedious  in  my  absence,  you  can  amuse  yourself  by  looking 
forth.  But,  let  me  warn  you  at  parting,  Herman,  open  to  no 
summons  but  mine." 

v. 

HE  left  me  at  these  words,  and  left  me  more  perplexed,  if  not 
more  apprehensive,  than  ever.  My  meditations  were  neither 
clear  nor  pleasant.  Indeed,  I  knew  not  what  to  think,  and, 
perhaps  naturally  enough,  ended  by  distrusting  my  counsellor. 
The  change  in  his  deportment  and  language  had  been  no  less 
marvellous  than  was  the  reception  which  I  had  met  with  from 
the  baroness.  The  inference  seems  usually  justified  that  where 
there  is  mystery,  there  is  guilt  also  ;  and  Bruno  had  evidently 
been  more  mysterious  and  inscrutable  than  the  baroness.  She, 
indeed,  had  spoken  plainly  enough.  Looks,  words,  and  actions, 
had  equally  denounced  and  driven  me  from  her  presence  ;  and, 
ignorant  and  innocent  of  any  wrong,  performed  or  contemplated, 
I  necessarily  regarded  my  benefactress  as  the  victim  of  sudden 
lunacy.  Still,  it  was  impossible  to  reconcile1  the  conduct  of 
Bruno,  however  strange  and  unaccountable  it  might  seem,  with 
the  idea  of  his  unfaithfulness.  He  certainly,  so  far  as  I  knew, 
had  ever  been  true  to  my  interests.  He  had  been  something 
more.  He  had  shown  himself  deeply  attentive  to  all  my  feel 
ings.  Never  had  father  U-btowed  more  tender  care  on  a  be 
loved  son,  and  shown  more  of  parental  favor  in  his  attachments, 
than  had  been  displayed  toward  me  from  the  first  by  this  per 


THE    MIDNIGHT    VISITER.  109 

son.  It  wa>  not  easy  now  to  distrust  him  ;  and,  racked  by  con- 
•  n  jpotures.  I  passed  two  weary  hours  before  anything 
happened  to  divert  my  thought*  from  speculations  which  brought 
me  n  •  i:i._rher  to  the  truth.  In  the  meanwhile,  I  had  made  sun 
dry  attempts,  hy  looking  around  me,  to  lessen  the  influence  of 
my  thoughts  upon  my  feeling-;.  I  examined  mv  chamlicr  \\itli 
fli  .ippearance,  if  not  the  feeling,  of  curiosity.  I  mounted  to 
the  window,  and  for  a  little  while  was  soothed  by  the  soft,  sil 
very  light  of  the  moon,  as  it  seemed  to  trickle  down  the  brown, 
discolored  sides  of  the  rocks  tli.it  rose  in  the  distance,  hill  upon 
hill,  until  the  last  was  swallowed  up  in  the  gloomy  immensity 
beyond.  The  moon  herself,  in  the  zenith,  was  beyond  my 
glance.  But  this  prospect  did  not  relieve  the  anxiety  which 
it  failed  to  divert.  I  turned  from  the  pleasing  picture,  and, 
resuming  my  seat  beside  the  table  in  my  gloomy  apartment, 
again  surrendered  myself  up  to  those  meditations  which,  how- 
ever,  were  soon  to  be  disturbed.  My  attention  was  called  to 
the  door  through  which  Bruno  had  taken  his  departure,  and 
which  —  though  I  did  not  then  know  the  fact  —  led  through  a 

diMnal  corridor,  to  a  suite  of  rooms  beyond.  A  distinct 
tap,  twice  or  thrice  repeated,  was  made  upon  the  door.  I  «a> 
on  the  eve  of  forgetting  the  solemn  injunctions  of  my  companion, 
and  had  nearly  risen  from  my  seat  for  the  purpose  of  opening  it. 
1  recollected  myself,  however,  before  doing  so,  and  maintained 
an  inflexible  Silence,  hut  1  could  not  stifle  the  beatings  of  mv 
heart,  \\hich,  on  a  sudden,  seemed  to  have  acquired  fourfold 
powers  of  pulsation.  I  almost  tottered  under  my  emotion;  and 
nothing  but  a  resolution  of  the  most  stern  character,  and  the 
feeling  of  sham.-  that  came  to  my  reliel  and  reproached  me  with 
my  |  enabled  me  to  preserve  a  tolerable  degree  of  com 

posite.      1   kept  silence  ami  mv  heat;    suppressed  my  lire  a  thing! 

:i  M  1   cMul  1  ;    and.  with  e;,.  ly  less  keen  than  tli"M- 

of  tli«-  \\ateh-dog  \\hen  the  wolf-dmvr  trots  about  the  enri»Mire. 
did  I  listen  to  the  mysterious  Mimm«.ns  from  without.  A_ 
and  again,  tin. ugh  still  in  moderate  force,  as  if  some  caution  was 
r«.  prevent  the  soun  l>  fr«.in  reaching  other  senses  than 
my  o\\n.  were  the  taps  repented  upon  the  door ;  and,  after  a 
full  quarter  of  an  hour,  passed  in  u  condition  <•!  e  the 

mogt  trying  and  op  I  was  at  length  relieved  by  hearing 


200  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

the  tread  of  retiring  footsteps,  preceded  by  the  murmurs  of  a 
voice  which  I  had  never  heard  before,  and  none  of  the  words 
of  which  could  I  distinguish. 

I  breathed  more  freely  for  a  while,  but  for  a  while  only.  Per 
haps  an  hour  elapsed — it  might  have  been  less  —  it  certainly 
could  not  have  been  more ;  I  had  fallen  into  a  sort  of  stupor, 
akin  to  sleep,  for  nature  was  not  to  be  denied  her  rights,  < -\  < -n 
though  care  had  begun  to  insist  on  hers ;  when  the  summons  was 
renewed  upon  the  entrance,  and,  this  time,  with  a  considerable 
increase  of  earnestness.  Still,  I  followed  the  counsel  of  Bruno, 
returned  no  answer,  and  strove  to  retain  my  position  in  the  most 
perfect  silence.  The  knocking  was  repeated  after  a  little  inte»* 
val,  but  with  the  same  want  of  success.  Then  I  heard  voices. 
A  whispering  dialogue  was  evidently  earned  on  between  two 
persons.  How  acute  will  the  ears  of  anxiety  become  when 
sharpened  by  apprehension.  I  heard  whispers,  evidently  meant 
to  be  suppressed,  through  a  stone  wall  nearly  three  feet  in, 
thickness.  The  whispering  was  succeeded  by  a  third  summons, 
to  which  I  paid  as  little  attention  as  before,  and  then  the  whis 
pers  were  exchanged  for  murmurs — sharp,  quick  murmurs — 
in  the  tones  of  that  voice,  which,  once  heard,  could  never  have 
been  forgotten.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  baroness.  I  could  now 
distinguish  her  words;  for,  in  her  passion,  she  lost  all  her  pru 
dence.  "  Said  you  not  that  you  saw  them  enter  together  ?" 
The  reply  was  not  audible,  though  the  whisper  which  conveyed 
it  was  sufficiently  so. 

"And  you  saw  Bruno  go  forth  alone  ?" 

Again  the  whisper,  which  must  have  been  affirmative. 

"  And  he  took  the  way  to  the  convent  ?" 

The  response  was  immediate,  and,  1  suppose,  affirmative  also, 
though  Ktill  in  a  whisper  too  soft  for  me  to  hear. 

"  Then  he  must  be  here  !" 

The  remark  was  followed  by  a  louder  knocking,  in  the  inter 
vals  of  which  my  name  was  called  three  several  times  in  the 
voice  of  the  baroness;  each  time  with  increased  emphasis,  and 
evidently  under  the  influence  of  a  temper,  roused  from  the  first, 
and  growing  momently  more  and  more  angry,  under  disappoint 
ment.  I  began  to  reproach  myself  with  my  conduct.  How 
could  I  justify  this  treatment  of  my  benefactress?  By  H  hat 


MYMT.UY    I  Nt  UKASES.  201 

right  did  I  exclude  her,  and  what  reason  could  I  give  to  my 
self  or  others  for  such  disrespectful  treatment?  The  discussioa 
of  this  question  in  my  <>wn  mind  led  to  various  and  conflicting 
NUttiwft  My  reflections  all  refilled  tliat  I  should  answer  the 
Buminons,  and  open  the  door  to  the  mistress  of  the  castle;  but 
my  ferling>.  suayed  equally  by  the  mystery  of  my  situation, 
ami  the  singular  influence  \\hieh  P-nino  had  acquired  over  me, 
were  opposed  to  any  compliance.  While  I  debated,  however, 
with  nivM-lf,  I  heard  another  voice  without  —  the  voice  of  Bruno 
—  which  seemed  to  produce  as  much  annoyance  and  fluttering 
among  iny  nocturnal  visiters,  a>  their  summons  had  occasioned 
in  my  own  excited  heart.  His  tones  were  loud,  and  he  seemed 
to  be  under  as  much  excitement  as  the  baroness.  The  words 
of  his  first  address  were  clearly  audible. 

"Ah,  madam,"  he  exclaimed,  "it  is  as  I  apprehended;  you 
have  then  violated  your  promi.se  —  you  have  dared!" — 

"Dared  —  dared!"  was  the  almo-t   fierce  exclamation  in  re 
ply. 

Av,  madam,  dared.  You  knew  the  penalty  of  faithlessness 
when  you  complied  with  the  conditions ;  can  it  be  that  you 
w.iuld  defy  it.  HOW  is  it  then — " 

"Stand   from   my    way,   in>olent  !"   cried   the   baroness,   inter 
rupting  him  ill  haught\    arcent.s,  and  evidently  moving  forward. 

"  Willingly,"  \\as  the   an.swei  ;    "  \\illiugly,  but  I  go  with  you 
for  awhile.      Dismiss  the  girl." 

Strange  to  say,  this  command,  for  command  it  wa>,  was  in 
stantly  obeyed.  .  1  heard  the  baroness  clearly  addn  ,->s  a  third 
'ii.  »f  \\liom  1  knew  nothing,  but  whom  1  conceived  to  be 
the  pei>on  meant  by  liruno,  in  terms  which  despatched  her  from 
the  juoence.  The  dialogue  i.et\\een  the  two  was  then  re>u: 
but  the  M.unds  gradually  died  away  from  my  ears,  as  it  seemed 
in  i-on-equenre  ..f  the  parties  retiring  to  some  more  di>tant  >p..t. 
My  agitation  may  he  fancied  all  the  while.  So  long  as  the  in- 
terlocuior.s  were  \\ithin  hearing,  1  was  more  composed  ami  quiet. 
When  I  ceased  to  hear  them  and  to  be  coiiM-iou-*  ol  their  neigh 
borhood,  my  anxi'  ;ne  utterly  unrestrainable.  1  d^-lied 
the  fears  which  oppressed  me,  tLc  warning  which  had  been 
given  me,  the  nice  scruples  of  propriety  and  delicacy,  which,  at 
another  time,  I  should  have  insisted  upon  a&  paramount  to  ev.  i  \ 


'20'2  SOUTHWARD    UO  ! 

other  law.  1  lifted  the  bar  from  the  door,  which  1  opened,  and 
emerged  into  the  long  and  gloomy  gallery,  of  which  I  have  al 
ready  Briefly  spoken.  I  was  resolved  to  pursue  the  parties, 
and  satisfy  that  intense  curiosity  —  a  curiosity  which  was  strict 
ly  justified  by  my  own  entire  dependence  upon  the  circumstances 
in  progress — possibly,  for  life  and  death,  weal  and  wo,  bondage 
and  freedom  —  which  was  preying  upon  me  like  a  fever.  With 
many  misgivings,  some  momentary  scruples,  and  a  few  fears, 
all  of  which  I  contrived  to  keep  in  subjection,  I  pursued  this 
gallery  with  the  most  cautious  footstep,  resolved  to  hear  the 
dreadful  truth,  for  such  I  now  esteemed  it  to  be,  upon  which 
turned  the  mysterious  history  of  my  birth  and  fortunes.  I 
groped  my  way,  almost  in  entire  darkness,  along  a  ruinous  part 
of  the  castle.  The  gallery  seemed  to  be  winding,  and  there 
were  openings  in  the  wall,  which  I  felt  on  either  hand  at  inter 
vals,  and  which  seemed  to  indicate  other  chambers  and  apart 
ments.  Through  these  a  chill  wind  passed,  confirming  me  in 
the  belief  that  they  were  ruinous  and  deserted,  and  satisfying 
me  that  the  parties  I  pursued  were  not  to  be  found  in  either  of 
tin-in.  At  the  end  of  the  gallery  I  was  stopped  by  a  door,  and 
beyond  it  the  voices  were  again  heard,  sometimes  low,  at  other 
times  in  angry  emphasis,  but  seemingly  with  little  or  no  cessa 
tion  either  of  one  or  of  the  other.  The  words  were  seldom  suf 
ficient!  v  audible  to  be  syllabled  clearly,  and  my  curiosity  would 
not  sniler  me  to  remain  satisfied.  I  tried  the  door,  which,  to  my 
great  joy,  was  unfastened,  and  advanced  with  increased  caution 
into  a  second  and  small  apartment  which  seemed  a  dressing- 
room.  A  faint  light  gliding  through  a  chink  in  the  opposite 
wall,  together  with  the  distinct  voices  of  the  persons  I  sought, 
guided  me  to  a  spot  where  I  could  see  them  with  tolerable  ease, 
ami  hear  all  their  words  distinctly.  The  chamber  into  which  I 
looked  was  similarly  furnished  with  my  own.  It  seemed  to 
have  been  equally  unoccupied.  An  ancient  ottoman  received 
the  form  of  the  baroness,  who,  as  she  spoke,  alternately  rose 
from,  or  sunk  hack  upon  its  cushions.  She  scarcely  uttered  a 
sentence,  without  accompanying  it  with  great  and  corresponding 
action;  now  rihin<r  from  her  seat  ami  advancing  passionately 
upon  her  companion  with  hand  uplifted  as  if  to  strike,  her  eye 
flashing  fury  and  resolution  while  her  lips  poured  forth  a  tor 


CONFLICT   OF   PASSIONS.  203 

rent  of  impetuous  indignation  and  rage;  —  then  suddenly  rece 
ding  at  the  close  of  her  words,  she  would  sink  back  as  if  ex 
hausted  upon  the  ottoman,  burying1  her  face  within  her  hands 
and  sobbing  with  disappointed  anger.  Bruno,  meanwhile, 
i  the  very  embodiment  of  coolness  and  resolution. 

"Ulrica,"  I  heard  him  say,  as  I  approached  the  aperture, 
"these  are  follies  from  which  you  should  be  now  freed.  They 
are  frenzies  which  must  only  destroy  you,  while  they  do  no 
pood  to  your  purpose,  enfeeble  you  in  my  sight  and  humble 
vi m  iii  your  own.  Of  what  avail  is  all  this  violence  —  of  what 
avail  your  further  struggles  to  prevent  that  consummation  which 
is.  at  length,  at  hand :  let  me  implore  you  to  be  wise  ere  it  be 
too  late.  Welcome  with  a  smile  the  necessity  which  you  can 
baffle  no  longer." 

'  Welcome  it  with  a  curse  —  welcome  it  with  death,  rather. 
Well  do  you  call  it  a  necessity ;  it  is  a  necessity  like  death,  and 
as  such,  and  such  only,  shall  it  have  my  welcome." 

"And  the  wise  welcome  death  with  a  smile,  if  only  because 
it  is  a  nere^ity,"  replied  Bruno.  "You  can  not  now  escape  mo, 
you  can  not  longer  evade  compliance  with  my  wishes.  Long, 
long,  and  wearisome  indeed,  have  been  my  labors.  I  have  at 
length  triumphed  !  I  have  succeeded  in  my  purpose,  and  am, 
at  length  the  master  of  your  fate  !  I  witness  your  struggles 
with  sorrow,  as  they  only  drive  you  on  the  more  certainly  to 
humiliation  —  perhaps  to  madness.  It  is  pity,  Ulrica,  genuine 
pity,  and  no  other  feeling,  which  would  move  me  to  implore  of 
vou  a  willing:  concession  <>t  that  which  y<>u  can  no  longer  avoid 
to  make.  The  necessity  is  now  inevitable,  and  I  would  spare 
you  those  further  struggles  which  tend  only  to  your  exhaustion. 
You  are  so  completely  in  iny  power,  that  your  hatred  and  fury 
no  longer  awaken  my  indignation." 

"Do  y.ii  exult,  wretch  —  do  ymi  then  exult?  Beware! 
You  are  not  yet  secure  of  your  triumph." 

"I  am.  Let  this  night  pass  only  without  harm  to  the  boy, 
And  all  is  well,  and  our  triumph  is  complete.  I  am  then  your 
mast 

"  Master  !  master  !  Away,  insolent,  and  leave  me.  You  are 
still  my  slave." 

N...  Ulrica,  you  know  better  than  this.     The  epithet  is  no 


204  SOUTHWARD   HO! 

longer  applicable.  I  am  your  master,  and  the  master  of  your 
fate." 

"Slave!  slave!  slave!"  was  the  oft-repeated  and  bitter  ex 
clamation,  which  came  forth  from  her  lips  in  foamed  impotence. 

"  If  to  conquer  is  to  acquire  the  rights  of  a  master,  then  are 
these  rights  mine.  Still  I  say  not  'Wo  to  the  conquered.' 
No,  Ulrica,  again  and  again,  I  conjure  you  to  seek  favor  and  to 
find  it.  It  is  still  in  your  power — it  is  in  your  power  while  this 
night  lasts  —  to  receive  indulgence.  Be  merciful  to  yourself  as 
well  as  to  him,  the  youth,  who  now,  for  the  first  time,  from  that 
awful  hour  of  storm  and  meditated  crime,  the  hour  of  his  birth, 
enters  the  dwelling  of " 

"Say  it  not,  man  —  wretch,  fiend!  Hell's  curses  and  con 
suming  fire  be  upon  that  hour,  and  the  vile  thing  of  which  you 
speak.  Slave  !  Hence  !  hence  and  leave  me  !  and  hear  from 
my  lips — lips  which  have  seldom  spoken  the  language  of  ven 
geance  and  of  hate  in  vain,  that  the  night  is  not  yet  over,  and 
he  who  shouts  at  the  close  of  one  day  may  howl  ere  the  begin 
ning  of  another." 

"I  do  not  despise  your  threats,  Ulrica — I  fear  them  ;  —  but  I 
guard  against  them  also.  Did  you  fancy  that  you  could  pene 
trate  to  that  chamber  undiscovered  by  the  watchful  eyes  that 
for  the  last  seventeen  years  have  been  busy  in  penetrating 
every  movement  of  your  mind  and  soul  ?" 

"Accursed  period!  Fiend,  wherefore  will  you  torment  me 
with  the  recollections  of  that  time  ?" 

"  Curse  not  the  time,  Ulrica,  but  the  deed  which  it  witnessed, 
and  the  worse  deeds  to  which  it  led  —  your  deeds,  Ulrica,  not 
mine — your  free  and  voluntary  deeds,  to  which  neither  the 
counsels  of  wisdom,  nor  of  others,  bnt  your  appetites  and  evil 
passions  impelled  you.  You  have  called  me  slave  repeatedly 
to-night — it  is  your  favorite  epithet  when  you  deign  to  speak 
of,  and  to  me.  It  is  now  time  that  I  should  relieve  myself  from 
the  epithet,  as  1  am  now  able  to  prove  myself  your  master,  and 
the  master  of  your  fate.  If,  seventeen  years  ago,  I  was  the 
bondman  of  your  father,  annexed  to  the  soil,  his  serf — your 
alave  —  I  have  been  emancipated  from  all  such  relationships  by 
your  crime.  You  MMftoCJ  the  power  which  was  transmitted 
you,  to  command  my  obedience.  You  required  of  me  a  sen  ice 


THK    VOICE    OK    Till:    MASTER. 

M  a  slave,  which  released  mi  from  all  obligations  of  that  condi- 
tion  ;  and  though  I  wore  the  aspect,  the  demeanor,  the  hurden 
of  the  slave,  from  that  moment  I  resolved  to  be  one  no  longer. 
When  that  boy " 

"  Curse  him  !  —  Hell's  curses  be  upon  him  and  you !"  was  the 
fiendish  exclamation,  accompanied  by  looks  equally  fiendish. 

44  Those  curses,  Ulrica,  will  <Tm#  to  your  neck  and  strangle 
you  for  ever!"  was  the  stern  and  indignant  answer  of  Bruno  to 
this  interruption.  "  Of  one  thing  be  certain,  they  neither  vex 
me  nor  baffie  me  in  my  purpose.  They  have  never  hitherto 
done  so,  nor  shall  they  now,  when  my  labors  are  on  the  eve  of 
successful  completion.  But  I  resume  :  When  that  boy  was  bom, 
1  resolved  to  secure  him  from  the  fate  of  the  others!  Did  it 
n«»t  prove  my  fitness  for  freedom  when  my  mind  was  successful 
in  the  struggle  with  my  master  ?  How  long  has  that  struggle 
continued  —  what  has  been  its  history  —  what  now  is  its  termi 
nation  ?  My  triumph — my  continued  triumphs — my  perfect 
inmate ry  over  you!  I  have  bafiled  you  in  your  purposes  —  pre 
vented  many  —  would  I  could  have  prevented  a// — of  your  evil 
deeds  and  desires;  protected  the  innocent  from  your  hate  —  pre 
served  the  feeble  from  your  malice,  and  secured,  to  this  mo 
ment,  the  proofs  equally  of  your  crime  and  my  superiority.  Did 
these  achievements  seem  like  the  performances  of  a  slave  ?  Did 
these  betray  the  imbecility,  the  ignorance,  or  the  pliability  of 
the  slave?  No,  Ulrica,  no!  He  who  can  rank  with  his  m. 
has  gained  a  sufficient,  perhap>  the  only  sufficient  title  to  his 
freedom  !  But  that  title  was  already  gained  when  you  de 
led  to  the  level,  and  cm. rented  your>elt'  with  sharing  the 

pleasures  of  th.-  when  you  were  willing " 

\  :  rent  of  the  most  terrific  imprecation,  in  a  voice  more  like 
the  bursting  of  a  thunderbolt,  drowned  the  narrative,  of  the 
speaker,  and  prevented  me  from  hearing  the  conclusion  of  a 
.spcedi.  the  ten«»r  of  which  equally  surprised  and  confused  me. 
What  Bruno  said  was  jost  eaottgh  to  advance  me  to  a  mental 
uiniiM'tu-''  whence  I  could  survey  only  a  sea  of  fog,  and  haze, 
mi. I  mysterv,  much  deeper  than  before.  When  his  words  again 
became  intelligible,  he  had  discontinued  his  reminiscence*. 

me,   Ulrica.     You  know  not  yet  the  extent  of  my 
.'        YOU    die;un    u«'t    tli.it    I    am    f;nni1iai   with    vm   ke 


206  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

erets  even  beyond  the  time  when  ]  was  called  to  share  them. 
Till  now  I  have  kept  the  knowledge  from  you,  but  when  T 
name  to  you  the  young  but  unhappy  Siegfried!  His  fate — " 

"  Ha  !      Can    it   be  !      Speak,   man,  monster,   devil !      How 
know  you  this?     Hath  that  vile  negress  betrayed  me  ?" 

"  It  needs  not  that  you  should  learn  whence  my  knowledge 
comes.     Enough  that  I  know  the  fate  of  the  unhappy  Siegfried 
—  unhappy  because  of  your  preference,  and  too  vain  of  his  ele 
vation  from  the  lowly  condition  of  his  birth,  to  anticipate   tlio 
t'-arful  doom  which  in  the  end  awaited  him;  and  to  which  1, 
too,  was  destined.     But   the  kind  Providence  which   has  pre- 
od  me,  did  not  suffer  me  to  be  blinded  and  deceived  by  the 
miserable  lures  which  beguiled  him  to  his  ruin,  and  which  you 
vainly  fancied  should  mislead  me.     You  would  have  released 
my  limbs  from  fetters  to  lay  them  the  more  effectually  upon  my 
soul.     You  commanded  my  submission,  you  enforced  it,  but  you 
never  once  deceived  me.     I  saw  through  you  from  the  first,  and 
prayed  for  the  strength  to  baffle  and  overcome  yon.     I  obtained 
it  through  prayer  and  diligence ;  and  more  than  once  it  was  my 
resolution,  as  it  long  has  been  in  my  power,  to  destroy  you,  and 
deliver  you  without  time  for  repentance,  to  the  fearful  agent  of 
evil  which  has  so  long  had  possession  of  your  heart.     That  boy 
has  saved  you  more  than  once.     The  thought  of  him,  and  the 
thought  of  what  he  was,  and  should  be,  to  you,  has  come  be 
tween  me  and  my  purpose.     You  have  been  spared  thus  long, 
and  it  is  with  you  to  declare,  in  this  place,  and  at  this  moment, 
whether  you  will  be  wise  in  season,  whether  you  will  forego 
the  insane  hatred  which  has  filled  your  bosom  from  the  hour  of 
his  birth,  and  accept  the  terms  of  peace  and  safety  which  I  now 
offer  you  for  the  last  time-    Hear  me  through,  Ulrica,  and  know 
that  I  do  not  heed  your  curses.     I  am  too  strong,  too  secure  in 
my  position,  to  be  moved  by  the  idle  language  of  wrathful  im 
potence.     This  night  must  determine  equally  for  him  and  your 
self.     To-morrow,  which  witnesses  his   public  triumph,  will  be 
too  late  for  you  unless  to  share  it.     I  have  already  seen  his  ho 
liness,  who  will  be  here  at  noon,  armed  with  plenary  powers  to 
search  and  examine ;  and  it  needs  only  that  I  should  point  my 
finger,  and  your  doom  is  written,  here  and  eternally.     You  are 
not  in  thp  temper  to  die ;  and  you  may  escape  for  repentance 


BLUW9    AND    DEK1  vN<  !.. 


Nor  is  the  condition  a  hard  one.    The  youth  is  noble,  intelligent, 
and  handsome  ;   lie  will  do  honor  to  any  house.     It  is  only  to 


\  Hi.  more.  >lave  !  Base,  blackhearted,  hitter  slave  !  Say 
DO  more  to  me  mi  tlii*  hatet'nl  subject.  You  have  deceived  me 
long  ;  hut  you  have  not  yet  baffled  me.  as  you  insolently  1 
Still  !.•»  are  you  the  master  of  my  late  !  —  The  master  of  my 
fate  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  That  were,  indeed,  to  he  humbled  to  the 
A  way,  fool,  and  know  that  my  foot  shall  yet  be  upon 
your  neck,  while  your  false  tongue  licks  the  ground  in  which 
you  grovel.  Away  !  I  defy  you  now,  and  spit  upon  you  with 
disgust  and  scorn.  Give  me  way,  that  I  may  lose  sight  of  your 
false  and  hateful  aspect." 

The  words  of  the  man  were  full  of  a  calm,  but  bitter  sorrow, 
as  he  stood  before  her. 

"  For  your  own  sake  and  safety,  Ulrica,  I  implore  you.     Be 

not  rash  ;  yield  to  the  necessity  which  must  go  forward  ;  yield 

to  it  with  grace,  and  all  may  yet  be  well.     There   is  still  time 

for  safety  and   for  repentance.     On  my  knees,  Ulrica,  I  suppli- 

ycm  t"  he  more  merciful  to  yourself,  to  me,  to  him  !" 

••r!"  she  exclaimed.  ;is,  with  violent  hand  and 
sudden  blow,  she  struck  the  speaker,  who  had  knelt  before  her, 
over  the  yet  unclosed  lips,  and  rapidly  pn—  e<i  toward  an  oppo 
site  entrance.  He  did  not  rise,  but  continued  to  implore  her. 

1  This,  too,  I  forgive,  Ulrica.     Once  more  1  pray  you  !" 

"Slave!  Slave!  Slave!  Do  your  foulest  —  base  traitor,  1 
defy  you  !" 

•  She  disappeared  in  the  same  instant,  and  Bruno  rose  slowlv 
and  sorrowfully  to  his  feet;  while,  trembling  with  equal  wonder 
and  apprehension,  I  stole  back  with  hurried  but  uncertain  foot- 
wteps  to  my  chamber,  and  hastily  fastened  the  door  behind  me. 

VI. 

I  NATURALLY  expected  that  Bruno,  in  a  short  time,  would  fol 
low  upon  my  footsteps,  and  deep  indeed  was  the  solicitude  with 
which  1  waited  for  his  coming.  N  .  ..uld  coir  un 

derstanding  of  another  the  singular  and  oppressive  teelings,  doubt* 
and  anxieties   which   had  been  awakened  in  my   mind   l.y  the 


-  :unge  and  terrible  scene  which  I  had  witnessed.  The  curioui 
relation  in  which  the  parties  stood  to  each  other  —  the  calm  ag- 
MI  ranee  and  stubborn  resolution  which  was  shown  by  Bruno,  in 

nee  of  one  whom  I  had  regarded  only  in  the  light  of  a  mis- 

I  equally  without  reproach  or  fear  —  her  fury,  which,  as  it 
awakened  no  respect  in  him,  was  the  suilieient  proof  of  the  weak- 
ni's.s  and  his  power  —  his  mysterious  accusations,  which  I  was 
too  young  to  comprehend  and  too  inexperienced  to  trace  ; — and, 
not  least,  the  fearful  threats  to  which  every  sentence  which  he 
uttered  tended  —  subdued  all  my  strength,  and  made  me  weaker 
in  limb  and  in  heart  than  the  infant  for  the  first  time  tottering 
mi  uncertain  font^u-ps.  There  was  something,  also,  in  the  brief 
space  which  he  allowed  the  baroness  —  but  the  single  night  on 
which  she  had  already  entered  —  for  repentance  before  doom, 
which  fearfully  increased  the  terrors  with  which  my  imagination 
invested  the  whole  fearful  subject.  And  what  could  be  the 
judgment  —  what  the  penalty  —  for  those  crimes,  of  which,  as 
nothing  was  known  to  me,  all  seemed  vast,  dark,  and  over 
whelming  ?  The  more  I  strove  to  think,  the  more  involved  I 
became  in  the  meshes  of  my  own  wild-weaving  fancies ;  and, 
failing  to  lix  upon  any  certain  clue  which  might  lead  me  to  a 

^•»nable  conclusion,  I  strove,  at  length,  in  headache  and  vexa 
tion,  to  dismiss  all  thought  from  my  mind,  patiently  awaiting  the 
approach  of  Bruno  and  the  morning  for  the  solution  of  my  doubts 
and  conjectures.  But  Bruno  and  the  morning  promised  to  be 
equally  slow  in  their  approaches.  The  stillness  of  death  now 
overspread  the  castle,  and  the  buzzing  of  a  solitary  insect  within 
my  chamber,  acquired,  in  the  tomb-like  silence  of  the  hour,  a 
s  ranjre  and  emphatic  signification,  in  my  ear.  Hopeless  of  Bru 
no's  immediate  return  —  as  nothing  could  be  more  natural  than 
the  conclusion  that  his  labors  must  be  great  that  night  in  prepa 
ration  for  those  inumlng  results  of  which  he  had  spoken  so  c..n- 
fidently — I  determined  to  yield  myself  to  slumber;  and,  without 
undressing,  I  threw  myself  upon  the  massive  and  richly  decora 
ted  couch  of  my  chamber.  But  I  might  as  well  have  stri\m 
for  Hight  to  :he  upper  clouds,  as  to  win  the  coy  and  mocking 

]i  which  I  desired.  My  imagination  was  wrought  up  to  an 
almost  feverish  intensity.  The  breathing  of  the  wind  through 
a  crevice  startled  and  distressed  me,  and  in  the  very  silence  ol 


THK    ITKI'.ACK    HY    THE    LAKK. 

the  scene  and  hour  I  felt  a  presence  which  stimulated  my  fan- 
OMt  and  increased  my  anxiety  and  dread.  I  no  longer  strove 
for  sleep.  I  ro^-e  and  approached  the  little  window,  and  looked 
down  upon  the  court.  There  the  moonlight  lay.  spread  ont  like, 
•inent,  so  soft,  so  spiritual,  that  thought  naturally  became 
mysticism  as  I  surveyed  it,  and  the  vague  uncertainties  of 
the  future  crowded  upon  the  arena  of  the  present  world.  I 
could  fancy  shadows  —  which  were  images  rather  than  shadows 
—  which  passed  to  and  fro  in  the  cold,  thin,  hut  hazy  atmo 
sphere  ;  that  t»ssed  their  wild  arms  above  their  marlde  hrows,  as, 
melting  away  in  the  distance,  they  gave  place  to  wilder  and  pur- 
-uing  aspeet>.  Sounds  seemed,  at  length,  to  accompany  these 
movements,  and  that  acute  sense  of  the  marvellous,  which  all 
men  possess  in  proportion  to  their  cultivated  and  moral  nature, 
and  which  seems  a  quality  of  sight  and  hearing  only  —  a  thing 
all  eyes  and  ears — conjured  syllables  from  the  imperfect  sounds, 
and  shrieks  of  pain  from  the  vague  murmurs  which  now  really 
reached  my  ears  from  a  distance,  and  which,  probably,  were  only 
murmurs  of  the  wind  over  the  little  lake  that  lay  at  the  foot  of 
the  castle.  As  this  conviction  stirred  my  mind,  I  remembered 
the  door  to  which  the  attention  of  Bruno  had  been  drawn  for  a 
moment  while  he  was  discussing  the  securities  of  my  chamber. 
I  remembered  that  this  door,  as  he  described  it,  led  to  the  ter- 
which  immediately  overlooked  the  lake.  The  remem 
brance,  in  my  feverish  state  of  mind,  led  me  to  desire  to  sm  \ .  \ 
this  scene,  and  1  approached  the  door,  and  had  already  begun  to 
undo  the  fastenings,  which,  by  the  way,  I  found  far  less  firm 
and  secure  than  my  friend  had  imagined.  The  niches  of  the 
wall,  into  which  the  bar  was  dropped,  were  crumbling,  and  de 
cayed  to  so  great  a  decree,  that  the  shoulder  of  a  vigorous  man, 
from  without,  might,  without  much  elVort,  have  driven  it  from 
the  -iiuht  fragment*  \\hich  still  held  it  ill  its  place.  Nor  WM 

MPM    ti  of  \iolence  necessary  to  eft'ect  an   entrance, 

l-'ioiu  a  further  examination  I  discovered  that  the,  wall  had  been 
tampered  with  —  a  fragment  <-f  the  .st«,ne  dislodged,  though  not 
withdrawn,  through  the  opening  of  which  a  hand  from  without 
might  readily  lift  the  bar  and  obtain  access.  The  cement  having 
been  carefully  scraped  away,  the  stone  was  suffered  to  remain, 
to  nicely  adjusted  to  the  place,  that  it  was  only  from  one  point 


•J10  M.riHWAKD   H<I 


•)(  view  that  I  could  discern  a  faint  glimmer  of  the  moonlight 
through  the  aperture.  The  suspicions  of  Bruno,  not  to  speak 
of  my  own,  received  strong  confirmation  from  this  discovery  ; 
and  my  apprehensions  being  naturally  ar«»used,  I  now  strove  fo? 
means  to  secure  the  door  which  I  had  been  about  to  open.  It 
was  apparent  to  me  that  I  was  now  threatened  with  danger 
from  without.  I  looked  about  my  chamber,  and  my  eye  rested 
upon  the  massive  table  standing  in  the  midst.  I  immediately 
seized  upon  that,  and  placed  it,  though  with  some  difficulty  , 
against  the  door.  While  I  meditated  in  what  manner  to  in 
crease  my  defences,  my  ear,  which  had  acquired  all  the  keen 
sensibilities  of  an  Indian  scout  on  the  edge  of  an  enemy's 
encampment,  detected  a  light  buz/ing  sound,  which  drew  my 
attention  to  the  terrace.  But  I  had  scarcely  stooped  to  the  ap 
erture,  when  a  scream  —  a  torrent  of  screams  —  rang  so  suddenly 
on  the  late  silent  atmosphere,  that  I  was  staggered,  almost 
stunned,  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had  on  the  instant  fallen  at  my  feet 
in  the  deep  stillness  of  the  unbroken  forests.  The  sounds  came 
from  the  terrace  ;  and  as  soon  as  I  could  recover  from  the  en 
feebling  effect  of  my  first  surprise,  hearing  the  screams  still 
repeated  as  wildly  as  ever,  I  obeyed  the  natural  impulse  of  my 
feelings,  and  prepared  to  rush  out  to  the  scene  of  clamor.  I 
dashed  the  table  from  the  door,  against  which  1  had  taken  such 
pains  to  bear  it,  and  tearing  the  slight  fastenings  away  which 
otherwise  secured  the  entrance,  I  threw  it  open  and  darted  out 
upon  the  scene.  The  object  that  met  my  eyes,  that  instant,  fas 
tened  my  feet.  There  stood  the  baroness,  about  twenty  steps  from 
me,  and  at  nearly  the  same  distance  from  a  door  in  the  opposite 
wall,  which  was  open,  and  from  which  she  had  evidently 
emerged.  Behind  her  stood  a  negress  —  a  dwarf  —  the  black 
est,  strangest  and  most  hideous-looking  animal  I  had  ever  in 
my  life  beheld.  The  baroness  had  been  approaching  my 
apartment  —  her  face  was  toward  me,  hut  her  eyes  were  turned 
—  nay,  fixed  and  frozen,  it  would  seem,  as  if  in  the  contempla 
tion  of  some  object  upon  the  parapet  which  overlooked  the  lake. 
il  attitude  exhibited  the  intense  and  strained  action  of  in 
sanity.  One  hand  —  the  left  —  was  uplifted,  and  averted,  as  if 
to  hide  her  eyes  from  the  object  which  they  yet  resolutely 
•trained  to  see.  In  the  other  hand,  glistening  in  the  moonlight. 


THi:   GUILTY    VISION.  'Jll 

was  a  poinard,  bared  and  borne  aloft,  as  if  designed  for  immedi 
ate  service.  I  shuddered  with  an  uncontrollable  emotion  of 

sickness  —  heart-sickiif U   I  associated  tin-  dialogue  to  which 

I  had  listened,  with  this  instrument  of  death.  But,  though  her 
had  evidently  iteen  toward  my  chamber,  her  eyes  were 
not  now  given  to  me.  Her  thoughts  —  if  thought  she  had  — 
were  all  elsewhere.  Her  fancies  were  hurrying  her  to  other 
worlds,  and  scenes,  and  objects,  visible  to  no  senses  but  her 
own.  Wildly  she  pointed  to  the  parapet  overlooking  the  lake, 
nnd  gazed  and  spoke  —  a  speech  whose  every  accent  was  a 
scream  of  agony —  as  if  still  in  sight  lay  some  object  of  hate 
and  fear,  which  she  vainly  struggled  not  to  see. 

"There  —  there  —  will  it  never  sink — will  it  never  die  —  will 
those  hideous  eyes  never  turn  away  !  Down,  down  !  —  Thrust 
it  down  when  I  command  ye  —  the  rock  is  heavy  in  its  garments 
—  the  lake  is  deep,  deep,  and  still  and  silent  —  down  with  it, 
slave  —  for  ever  from  my  sight !  Or,  if  ye  tremble,  set  me  free 
and  I  will  do  it  —  I  have  no  fears  —  none  !  none  !" 

I,  fixed  and  terrible,  ghastly  and  staring  wild,  with  idiot 
fren/y,  she  stood  gazing  and  intent  upon  the  fancied  object  in 
her  sight  —  immovable,  seemingly,  as  a  statue,  and  conscious  of 
not!,  .  I  1-ist  my  fears  in  the  contemplation  of  hers, 

and  approached  her,  though  hardly  with  any  distinct  purpose. 
She  seemed  not  to  notice  my  approach — not  even  when  the  ne- 
gress  who  fallowed  in  her  train  rushed  to  her  at  my  appearance 
;uid  'h  an  excitement  of  manner  only  less  than  her  own, 

to  direct  her  attention  upon  me.  But  the  wretched  one  turned 
not  once  aside  at  the  interruption.  Her  eyes  took  but  the  one 
direction,  and  could  not  be  averted  ;  and  her  incoherent  language 
was  poured  forth  in  rapid,  though  inconsecutive  syllables,  to  the 
object  of  her  mind's  vision,  which  so  effectually  froze  to  darkness 
all  her  capacities  of  sight.  Never  did  I  behold  —  never  could  I 
have  fnneii-d  or  believed  a  -peetacle  so  wild  and  fearful.  Ima 
gine  TT  yonr-'-lf  a  woman,  "lice  eminently  beautiful — of  a  dark 
and  mysterious  beauty  —  tall  in  form  —  majestic  in  carriaire — in 
little  more  than  the  prime  of  lite  —  wearing  the  iliirnitv  <>f  age, 
h-.-k.  movement,  feature,  and  gesture,  exhibiting 
the  impuUive  t'<>rre  ami  passionate  energy  of  youth:  —  her  per 
son  bending  forward  —  her  e^  es  straining  as  if  to  burst  from  the 


212  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

burning  sockets  —  her  lips  slightly  parted,  but  with  the  teeth 
gnashing  at  occasional  intervals  with  a  spasmodic  motion  —  her 
hair,  once  richly  black  and  voluminously  massive,  touched  with 
the  gray  that  certainly  ensues  from  the  premature  storms  of  a 
winter  of  the  soul,  escaping  from  all  confinement,  and  streaming 
over  her  cheeks  and  neck  —  the  veins  of  her  neck  and  forehead 
swelling  into  thick  ridges  and  cording  the  features  with  a  tension 
that  amply  denoted  the  difficulty  of  maintaining  any  such  restraint 
upon  them!  —  Imagine  such  a  woman!  —  the  ferocity  of  the 
demon  glaring  from  her  eye,  in  connection  with  the  strangest 
expression  of  terror  which  that  c/gan  ever  wore  —  the  raised 
dagger  in  her  hand  —  her  hand  uplifted — her  foot  advanced  — 
and  so  frozen  !  —  so  fixed  in  the  rigidity  of  marble  ! — the  image 
above  the  sepulchre  !  —  no  unfitting  emblem  of  the  dread  and  en 
during  marriage,  which  nothing  can  ever  set  asunder,  between 
unrepented  Guilt,  and  unforgiving  Death  ! 

I  was  nearly  maddened  even  to  behold  this  spectacle,  and  it 
was  a  relief  to  me,  when,  with  a  no  less  terrible  and  terrifying 
energy  she  shook  off  the  torpor  which  stifled  life  in  all  its  wont 
ed  forms  of  expression,  and  renewed  those  fearful  tones  of  mem 
ory  and  crime,  which,  though  revealing  nothing,  amply  testified 
to  a  long  narrative  equal  of  shame,  and  sin,  and  suffering. 

"There!  there!"  she  exclaimed,  still  addressing  herself  to 
some  imaginary  object  which  seemed  to  rest  or  to  rise  before  her 
upon  the  parapet  which  overhung  the  lake — "There  again!  — 
Its  hands  —  its  little  hands — will  nothing  keep  them  down! 
They  rise  through  the  water  —  they  implore  —  but  no!  no!  It 
were  a  mistaken  men-}  now  to  save  ! — let  me  not  look  —  let  me 
not  see  —  will  you  not  fling  it  over  —  the  lake  is  deep  —  the  rock 
is  heavy  in  its  little  garments  —  it  will  soon  sink  from  sight  for 
ever,  and  then  —  then  I  shall  be  safe.  Ha!  it  goes — it  goes  at 
last !  —  Do  you  not  hear  the  plunge  !  —  the  water  gurgles  in  its 
nostrils  —  closes  over  it,  and  —  God  spare  me,  what  a  piercing 
shriek  —  Another!  another! — Keep  me  not  back — I  will  look 
if  it  be  gone !  —  No  !  no  !  its  little  face  smiles  upon  me  through 
the  white  water !" 

And  this  was  followed  by  a  shriek,  piercing  like  that  which 
rihe  described,  which  penetrated  to  the  very  marrow  of  my  bones. 
With  Hie  cry  shr  bounded  toward  th<>  p:irapH.  looked  wildly 


THE   BITTER   AGONY.  213 

lown  into  the  lake  at  the  foot  of  the  castle,  then  recoiled  with  a 
scream  to  which  every  previous  cry  from  her  lips  was  feeble 
and  inexpressive.  The  climax  of  her  frenzy  had  been  reached. 
I  was  just  in  time  to  save  her.  She  fell  backward  and  I  re 
ceived  her  in  my  arms.  The  shock  seemed  to  bring  her  back 
to  a  more  human  consciousness.  Her  eyes  were  turned  upon 
my  own;  a  new  intelligence  seemed  to  rekindle  them  with 
their  former  expression  of  hate  —  her  hand  vainly  strove  to  use 
the  dagger  against  my  person.  In  the  effort,  it  fell  nerveless  at 
her  side,  while  a  sudden  discharge  from  the  mouth  and  nostrils 
drenched  my  garments  with  her  blood. 

VII. 

Bruno  at  that  instant  appeared  and  received  her  from  my 
arms.  The  relief  was  necessary  to  me  —  I  could  not  have 
sustained  her  much  longer.  I  was  sick  almost  to  exhaustion. 
I  felt  unable  to  endure  a  sight  to  me  so  strange  and 
terrible,  yet  I  strove  in  vain  to  tuni  my  eyes  away.  They 
wore  fixed  as  if  by  some  fearful  fascination.  Hers,  too, 
were  now  riveted  upon  me.  At  first,  when  I  transferred 
her  to  the  arms  of  Bruno,  they  were  turned  upon  him  ;  but, 
in  the  next  moment,  as  suddenly  averted,  with  an  expre 
of  I-ifithsouu'in'ss  and  hate,  which  suffering  had  not  softened,  n-i 
•  •einin^  approach  of  death  diminished  of  any  portion  of  in 
tensity.  On  me  they  bestowed  a  more  protracted,  but  scan-fly  a 
more  kindly  expression,  Broken  svllables,  stifled  and  overcome 
by  the  discharge  of  blood,  struggled  ft-ebly  from  her  lips;  and, 
fainting  at  last,  glae  was  borne  to  the  chamber  from  which  she 
hud  emerged  at  the  beginning  of  that  scene,  the  purposes  of 
which  seemed  to  me  so  inscrutable,  and  the  progress  of  which 
was  in  truth  so  terrible.  Medical  assistance  was  sent  for,  and 
•very  Micc.,r  bestowed  in  the  power  of  skill  and  humanity.  N 
I  .iv  that  a  deep  interest  in  her  fate  affected  my  bosom.  A 
ue  conjecture,  dark  and  strange,  which  coupled  tin-  fate,  and 
hi.-t'  i\  of  this  noble  but  wretched  ladv  with  mv  oun,  had  natui 
nlly  arisen  in  my  mind,  from  the  dialogue  to  which  1  had  been 
a  listener.  What  was  she  to  me  ?  I  shuddered  with  an  «j 
hension  and  painful  terror  whenever  this  ijui-stioii  PHggMtfd  it- 


214  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

self  to  my  thoughts.  What  was  she  not  ]  What  had  she  no* 
•\  '  ami  what  had  1  een  her  purposes — her  baffled  purposes  I 
Let  me  not  fancy  them  h-^t  I  madden. 

"  It  is  no  snl  ject  of  le^ret,  Herman,"  were  the  first  words  of 
Bruno,  when,  yielding  the  baroness  up  to  her  attendants,  we  re 
tired  to  another  apartment,  "(iod  lias  interposed  to  save  us 
from  a  greater  trial,  and  to  save  her  from  an  exposure  even  more 
humbling  than  this.  The  dawn  of  another  day,  the  sight  of 
wh'ch  she  will  now  he  spared,  would  have  been  worse  than 
death  to  a  spirit  such  as  hers." 

"  But,  will  she  die,  Bruno  ?  Can  she  not  be  saved  ?  is  it 
certain  ?" 

"  It  is  ;  and  I  am  glad  of  it  for  your  sake,  as  well  as  hers." 

"  For  my  sake  V 

"  Ay  !  the  moment  of  her  death  puts  you  in  possession  of  this 
castle  and  all  her  estates." 

"Me!" 

"  You." 

"  And  I  am'* 

"  Her  heir — yet  not  her  heir.  You  are  the  heir  to  a  power 
beyond  hers,  and  which  proved  her  destiny.  Her  death  makes 
atonement  at  once  to  the  living  and  to  the  dead.  She  now,  in 
voluntarily,  compensates  for  a  long  career  of  injustice.  But,  in 
quire  no  further;  death,  which  will  place  you  in  possession  of 
your  rights,  will,  at  the  same  time,  deprive  you  for  ever  of  a 
knowledge  of  certain  secrets,  which,  had  she  lived  till  to-mor 
row's  noon,  must  have  been  revealed  in  order  to  compel  that 
justice  which  has  been  too  long  denied.  It  is  fortunate  that  she 
will  perish  thus — fortunate  for  her  —  for  you  —  for " 

He  paused,  and  with  an  impulse  which  I  could  not  withstand, 
I  desperately  concluded  the  sentence  — 

44  And  for  yourself!" 

44  For  me  !  Ha  !  —  Can  it  be?  —  Herman,  my  son,  what  have 
you  done  ?" 

44  Followed  you  through  the  corridor,  when,  this  evening,  you 
Ved  the  baroness  away  from  my  apartment." 

"  And  did  you  trace  our  footsteps  —  did  you  find  us  where  w« 
were  —  did  you  hear  what  was  spoken  V 

"All!     All!" 


TH. 

lie  covered  his  lace  with  his  hand>.  and  groaned  aloud  in  the 
bitterness  of  an  anguished  and  disappointed  spirit. 

"Tins  par.-:,"  he  exelaiined  at  length,  "  I  had  hoped  to  spare 
you.  I  liave  toiled  for  this  at  all  seasons  and  hours,  hy  night 
and  day,  in  crowds  and  solitude-..  Vnhappy  boy!  your  curios- 
itv  lias  won  for  yon  that  partial  knowledge  <>f  the  tmth  which 
nm.st  only  bring  delusion,  doubt,  and  anxiety." 

"  But  why  should  it  be  partial,  Bruno.  I  know  from  what 
you  have  already  said,  that  y-m  know  more,  that  you  know  all. 
Yon  will  complete  my  knowledge,  yon  will  terminate  my  doni 

.•i  !  Never  !  If  God  has  spared  me,  by  his  act  this 
iiijrht,  that  dire  necessity  from  which  he  well  knows  I  would 
have  shrunk,  shall  I  now  voluntarily  seek  it?  No  !  No  !  The 
fearful  chronicle  of  shame  is  sealed  up  for  ever  in  her  death. 
Blessed  dispensation  !  Her  lips  can  no  longer  declare  her  folly, 
and  mine  shall  be  silent  on  her  shame.  You  have,  heard  all 
that  you  can  ever  hear  of  these  dreadful  mysteries." 

'•  Nnv.  Bruno!  Say  not  this,  I  implore  you.  Tell  me,  at 
least,  tell  me,  that  this  most  tearful  woman  is  not " 

1  .shrunk  from  naming  the  word,  the  word  signifying  the  rela- 
liip  which    I    |  to  exist    b»-t\\een  u-,  which,  indeed, 

geemed   now  to  be  infinitely  ni<>re  than   a  doubt,  a  suspicion.     I 
looked  to  him  to  comprehend,  to  answer,  without  making  neces 
ii  of  my  fear.      But  he  was  silent,  and  I  forced 
out  the    reluctant  word  : — 

r.runo,  tell  me  at  least,  that  this  fearful  woman  is 
not  —  my  mother." 

••  And  of  what  avail  if  I  should  tell  yo~a  this?  Would  that 
terminate  your  doubts  —  would  that  satisfy  your  curiosity  I" 

"  It  would  —  it  would." 

44  N'»,  Herman,  I  know  your  natuie  better  —  to  know  this 
would  only  lead  to  other  and  more  annoying  questions,  questions 
which,  if  answered,  would  take  peace  from  your  mind  for  ever. 
You  would  know  next — " 

He  now 

"Yes!"  I  exclaimed,  "I  would  then  seek  to  know  —  and  1 
now  do — what  was  he.  I'.runo  -my  father — and  what  is  the 
secret  of  your  power  over  her  —  and  who  are  you?" 

"  Let  it  be   a  matter  of  thanks  with   you    Herman,  in   your 


-!«'»  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

nightly  prayers,  that  you  can  never  know  these  things,"  was  the 
hoarsely  spoken  reply.  I  threw  myself  at  his  feet,  I  clasped 
his  knees,  I  implored  him  in  tears  and  supplications,  but  he  was 
immovable.  He  pressed  me  to  his  heart,  he  wept  with  me,  but 
he  told  me  nothing. 

VIII. 

AT  dawn  we  were  summoned  to  the  chamber  of  the  baroness. 

A  crisis  was  at   hand.     His  reverence,  the  cardinal ,  whose 

presence  had  been  expected  at  a  late  hour  in  the  day,  and  for 
another  purpose,  had  been  solicited  to  attend  in  haste,  and  had 
complied  with  Christian  punctuality,  with  the  demands  of  mortal 
suffering.  But  his  presence  effected  nothing.  The  miserable 
woman  clearly  enough  comprehended  his  words  and  exhortations. 
She  listened  without  look  of  acknowledgment,  or  regret,  or  re 
pentance.  She  heard  his  prayers  for  her  safety,  and  a  smile  of 
scorn  might  be  seen  to  mantle  upon  her  lips.  The  HOST  was 
elevated  in  her  sight,  and  the  scorn  deepened  upon  her  counte 
nance  as  she  beheld  it.  Truly  was  she  strong  in  her  weakness. 
The  sacred  wafer  was  presented  to  her  lips,  but  they  were  closed 
inflexibly  against  it.  The  death  struggle  came  on  ;  a  terrible 
conflict  between  fate  on  the  one  hand  and  fearful  passions  on  the 
other.  The  images  of  horror  will  never  escape  from  my  memory. 
They  are  engraven  there  for  ever.  She  raised  herself  to  a  sit 
ting  posture  in  the  bed  without  assistance.  The  effort  was  mo 
mentary  only.  But,  in  that  moment,  her  glance,  which  was 
fixed  on  me,  was  the  very  life-picture  of  a  grinning  and  fiendish 
malice.  The  expression  horrified  the  spectators.  His  eminence 
once  more  lifted  the  sacred  emblem  of  salvation  in  her  si^ht,  and 
the  last  effort  of  her  struggling  life  was  to  dash  it  from  his 
hands.  In  tha(  effort  she  sank  back  upon  the  pillows,  a  fresh 
discharge  of  blood  took  place  from  her  mouth,  and  strangulation 
followed.  The  sufferings  of  the  mortal  had  given  place  to  those 
of  which  there  can  be  no  mortal  record. 

**«****«•* 

And  I  was  the  master,  undisputed,  of  all  these  domains.  And 
Bruno  had  gone,  none  knew  whither.  Nothing  more  could  I 
fathom  of  these  mysteries,  but  there  was  one  search  that  I  insti- 


THK    UTTLK    SKKLKTON.  -17 

tuted,  one  discovery  that  I  made,  winch  tended  to  deepen  them 
yet  more,  in  seeming  to  give  them  partial  solution.  That  little 
lake,  1  had  it  drained,  an. 1,  just  beneath  the  wall  of  the  parapet, 
we  found  the  tinv  skeleton  of  an  infant  —  bleached  and  broken 
into  fragments,  but  sufficiently  perfect  t<»  leave  no  doubt  . 
original  humanitv.  A  rude  fragment  of  stone  such  as  compo-ed 
the  outer  wall  enclosing  the  castle,  lay  upon  its  little  ribs.  Need 
/  that  I  gathered  up.  with  the  solicitude  of  a  nameless  love, 
every  remnant  of  this  little  relic,  that  it  was  inurned  with  the 
tenderest  care,  and  consigned  to  sacred  keeping,  with  the  feelings 
of  one  who  knew  not  well  that  he  might  not  even  then  possess, 
though  he  had  never  known,  the  love  of  an  angel  sister. 

10 


CHAPTER   XII. 

"  TO-MORROW,  gentlemen,"  said  our  captain,  as  we  ascended 
from  the  supper-table  to  the  deck,  "  is  the  ever-memorable  anni 
versary  of  our  national  independence.  I  shall  prepare,  in  my 
department,  that  it  shall  be  welcomed  with  due  honors.  It  will 
be  tor  you  to  do  your  part.  A  committee,  I  suppose  —  eh,  gen 
tlemen  ?" 

Here  was  a  hint ;  and  the  excellent  Captain  Berry  never 
looked  more  like  a  stately  Spanish  Don,  in  a  gracious  moment, 
than  when  delivering  that  significant  speech. 

"  In  plain  terms,  captain,  we  are  to  have  a  dinner  correspond 
ing  with  the  day.  I  have  pleasant  auguries,  my  mates,  of  pud 
dings  and  pasties.  There  shall  be  cakes  and  ale,  and  ginger 
shall  be  hot  i'  the  mouth  too.  Nay,  because  thou  art  a  Wash- 
ingtonian,  shall  there  be  no  wine?  Shall  there  not  be  tempe 
rance —  after  the  manner  of  Washington  —  namely,  that  goodly 
use,  without  abuse,  of  all  the  precious  gifts  of  Heaven  ?  The 
hint  is  a  good  one,  captain.  We  thank  you  for  your  benevolent 
purposes.  It  will  be  for  us  to  second  your  arrangements,  and 
prepare,  on  our  parts,  for  a  proper  celebration  of  the  Fourth  of 
Jill;. 

"  I  rejoice  that  I  am  understood,  gentlemen.  It  is  usual,  on 
board  tliis  ship,  to  show  that  we  duly  sympathize  with  the  folks 
on  shore.  We  are  still  a  part  of  the  same  great  family.  There 
will  be  shoutings  in  the  cities  to-morrow.  The  country  will 
.iliak«-  with  tlir  n.ar  i.f  cannon  from  PaMUDaqtloddj  to  the  Rio 
ode.  Boston  will  l>la/e  away,  and  Gotham  will  respond, 
and  Baltimore  and  Norfolk  will  cry  aloud,  'What  of  the  day?' 
to  Charleston  and  Savannah  ;  and  these  in  turn  will  sing  out  to 
Mobile  and  New  Orleans,  and  the  \\  hole  jjulf,  to  the  Rio  Grande, 
will  catch  up  the  echoes  with  a  corresponding  uproar  of  rejoicing. 
And  shall  we  say  nothing?  we  who  sail  under  the  name  of  the 
{Treat  partisan  nnrrior  of  the  Revolution?  Gentlemen,  those 


THE    ORATOK    OK    THL    DAY.  lil^ 

pretty  little  brass  pieces,  that  now  sleep  at  your  feet,  are  stuffed 

to  the  mn/./.le  with  eloquence.  rl'hcy  will  give  tongue  at  the 
first  signs  of  the  dawn,  and  1  trust  that  nil  on  board  this  ship 
will  l>t>  prepared  M  echo  their  sentiment^." 

"  In  other  words,  captain,  we  must  have  a  celebration." 
"  F.ven  so.  gentlemen,  it'  it  be  your  pleasure.  We  >hall  have 
a  dinner — why  not  an  oration  ?  Why  not  our  toasts  and  sen 
timents,  as  well  as  our  friends  in  Charleston  and  New  York. 
We  are  here  a  community  to  ourselves,  and  I  venture  to  say 
that  no  community  is  more  unanimous  in  regard  to  the  dinner 
at  least." 

"  Or  the  drink." 
"  Or  the  puddings." 
"  Or  the  pies." 
-  The  pasties." 
"  The  ices." 
••  The  — the— " 

There  was  no  end  to  the  enumeration  of  the  creature  com 
forts  which  were  to  prove  our  unanimity  of  sentiment,  and  a 
feeling  of  the  mock-heroic  prompted  us  to  take  up  with  due 
gravity  the  hints  of  our  captain. 

We  agreed  upon  a  president,  and  he  was  —  the  captain;  n 
vice,  and  he  was  —  no  matter  who. 

We  appointed  a  committee  of  arrangements,  with  instructions 
to  prepare  the    regular  toasts.      And  —  we  appointed  an  orator! 
I  was  a  little   shrivelled-up   per.x,,n   in   striped  breeches,  with 
a  mouldy  yellow  |  ..d    ^ieen    >p«  claries.     Nobody  knew 

thing  about  him,  or,  in  fact,  why  he  came  to  he  choM-n.      lie 
at  his  hooks  all  day  ;  hut  it  wa>  ohsei  ved  that  whenever  he 
hnd  eon.  ;  t.,  nprii   his  jav,.-  it  was  to  say  something  of 

a    dry    -atir-ral    character.      He    was    accordingly    app- 
and    made   n«>   scruple    alum!    c»n-enting ;    only    remarkin-. 

nl'  prem<»nitor\  ,  that    "it   was  no   easv  matter  to   km»u   the 
Opinion-  ..J' all  on  hoard  ship;    he  should  therefore  .simply  untold 
hi-  oun.  >a:i>lird  that  if  they  v.  ere  n..t  exactly  those  of  the  com- 
p.iny,  it  was   only  tlu-ir  mi>t'..rtnne,  \\hich  it   should  make  ; 
highly  grateful  to  enjov  that  opportunitv  ot  repairing." 

Some  of  us  thought  this  speech  smacked  not  a  little  of  a  de 
lightful  self-complacency,  but  it  was  said  so  easily,  so  naturally, 


•220  BOUTHWAKI»  HU  ! 

and  so  entirely  as  if  the  speaker  had  no  consciousness  of  having 
delivered  himself  other  than  modestly,  that  we  concluded  to 
leave  the  matter  in  his  hands,  and  forebore  all  comment.  In 
this  resolution  we  were  confirmed  hy  seeing  him  begin  his  prep 
arations  the  next  moment  by  an  enormous  draught  from  the  bar ; 
the  potency  of  which,  judging  from  the  infinite  depth  of  its  color, 
was  well  calculated  to  afford  to  the  orator  all  the  inspiration  that 
could  ever  be  drawn  from  an  amalgam  of  Snake  and  Tiger. 
Such  was  the  title  which  he  gave  to  a  curious  amalgam  of  the 
sweet,  the  sour,  the  bitter,  and  the  strong  —  bitters  and  brandy, 
lemon  and  sugar,  and,  I  think,  a  little  sprinkling  of  red  pepper, 
being  the  chief  elements  in  the  draught.  We  felt  persuade'!, 
after  this  specimen  of  his  powers,  that  his  tastes  would  be  suf 
ficiently  various,  and  his  fancies  sufficiently  vivid ;  and  we  saw 
him  pull  off  his  spectacles,  and  put  off  to  bed,  with  full  confi 
dence  that  neither  sleeping,  dreaming,  drinking  or  waking, 
would  he  defraud  our  honest  expectations. 

His  departure  did  not  constitute  a  pernicious  example.  It 
was  followed  by  no  other  of  the  party.  Soon,  the  ladies  ap 
peared  on  deck,  and  we  grouped  ourselves  around  them,  my 
Gothamite  friend  planting  himself  on  the  right  of  Selina  Bur 
roughs,  closely,  but  a  little  in  the  rear,  as  if  for  more  convenient 
access  to  her  ear. 

"  So  squat  the  serpent  by  the  ear  of  Eve,"  I  whispered  him 
in  passing. 

"Ah!  traitor,"  quoth  he,  sotto  roce  also,  "would  you  betray 
me  ?" 

"  Do  not  too  soon  betray  yourself." 

"  Hem  !  a  sensible  suggestion." 

We  were  not  allowed  to  proceed  any  farther.  The  lady  be 
gan  with  reproaches. 

"  I  am  tuld,  gentlemen,  that  you  took  advantage  of  our  de 
parture  last  night  to  say  some  of  your  best  things  —  told,  in 
fact,  some  of  your  best  stories.  How  was  this  ?  Hut  we.  must 
not  be  made  to  suffer  ;i^aiu  in  like  manner,  and  I  propose  that 
we  begin  early  to-night.  Signor  Myrtalozzi" — turning  to  an 
interesting  professor  of  Italian,  who  formed  one  of  the  party  — 
41  we  should  hear  from  you  to-night.  If  I  did  not  greatly  mis 
understand  you,  there  were  some  curious  histories  recalled  to 


TM:      KTRt'SCAN    SEPUU'HRK.  ~-l 

you  this  morning  in  our  conversation  touching  the  '  Tarchmi,' 
and  'Sepulcl..  'iria.'  l.y  Mrs.  Hamilton  (I ray  .'" 

"  You  did  not  err,  sr-norita.  In  my  own  poor  fashion,  I  have, 
gleaned  from  these  and  other  picturesque  chronicles  a  story  of 
th rc»-  thou-und  years  ago,  which  may  he  sufficiently  fresh  for 
our  pre>*»ut  audience." 

"  In  tliis  salt  atmosphere  .'" 

"  Precisely.  With  your  permission,  senorita,  I  will  narrate 
the  legend  thus  compiled  from  the  antique  chronicle,  and  which 
I  call  — 

TUK   I'KTI  UK  OK  .H  IKi.MKNT;    OR,  THE  GROTTA  DEL  TIFONB 

A    TALK    OF    THK    KTRURIAN. 

Ma  se  conutcer  la  prima  radice 

Del  nostri,  amor,  tu  hai  cotunto  tifli-tto 

F«ro  come  rolui  che  piange  «  dice. — DANTK. 

CHAPTER    I. 

THK  "  (in-ttn  del  Tifone"  —  an  Etniscan  tomb  opened  by  the 
Chevalier  Man/.i,  in  1833  —  discovered  some  peculiarities  at  the 

time  "f  its  i.|MMiii!ir,  which  greatly  myvtilieil  the  cognoscenti  of 
Italy.  It  \\a-i  fnund,  by  certain  Roman  inscriptions  upon  tw-» 
of  the  sarcophagi,  that  the  inmates  helon^ed  to  anotlier  ]>< 
and  that  the  vaults  of  the  nohle  Taniuinian  family  of  r«>in]»o- 
nitis  had.  f..r  s  .mc  unaccoiintald.'  reasons,  been  opened  for  the 
admission  <>t  the  stranger.  No  place  was  BO  sacred  among  the 
I  as  that  <>f  hurial  ;  and  the  tombs  of  the  Liicumonrs 
Of  Tarquinia  were  held  particularly  *acred  to  the  immediate 
connections  of  the  chief.  Here  he  lay  in  state,  and  the  PC'. 
and  shoots  of  his  blmul  and  Im-nm  uere  prrouped  around  him, 
heini;  literally,  as  the  old  Ilrhrew  phrase, ,l.,^y  hath  it.  "  ^ath- 
*-red  to  their  lathers."  It  WM  ii-«t  "fien  and  then  only  under 
jiecidiar  circumstances  which  rendered  the  exception  to  the  rule 
proper  that  the  leave*  "f  .-t"iir  which  closed  the  mausoleum 

rolled  aside  for  t!.  <>n  ••!'  foreigners.      The  "  ( • : 

del  Tifone"  —  so  called  from  the  Ktru>can  TvphnM.  or  Anirel  of 
iK-ath,  which  appears  conspicuotisly  jtainted  upon  the  square 
central  pillar — was  the  laat  resting-place  ».f  thn  di<tin*rni<«hed 


222  MUTHWARD    HO! 

family  of  Pomponius.  It  is  a  chamber  eighteen  paces  long  and 
sixteen  broad,  ami  is  hewn  out  in  the  solid  rock.  The  s'lreoph- 
aprj  -\\-ere  numerous  when  first  discovered.  The  ledges  were 
full  —  every  place  was  occupied,  and  a  further  excavation  hud 
been  made  for  the  reception  of  other  tenants.  These  tombs 
were  all  carefully  examined  by  the  explorers  with  that  intense 
feeling  of  curiosity  which  such  a  discovery  was  calculated  to 
inspire.  The  apartment,  was  in  good  preservation  ;  the  paint 
ings  bright  and  distinct,  though  fully  twenty-two  centuries  must 
have  elapsed  since  the  colors  were  first  spread  by  the  hands 
of  the  artist.  And  there  were  the  inscriptions,  just  declaring 
enough  to  heighten  and  to  deepen  curiosity.  A  name,  a  frag 
ment —  and  that  in  Latin.  That  a  Roman  should  sleep  in  a 
tomb  of  the  Etruscan,  was  itself  a  matter  of  some  surprise ;  but 
that  this  strangeness  should  be  still  further  distinguished  by  an 
inscription,  an  epitaph,  in  the  language  of  the  detested  nation  — 
as  if  the  affront  were  to  be  rendered  more  offensive  and  more 
imposing  —  was  calculated  still  further  to  provoke  astonishment ! 
Why  should  the  hateful  and  always  hostile  Roman  find  repose 
among  the  patriarchs  of  Tarquinia  ? —  the  rude,  obscure  barba 
rian,  in  the  mausoleum  of  a  refined  and  ancient  family  ?  Why 
upon  an  Etruscan  tomb  should  there  be  other  than  an  Etruscan 
inscription?  One  of  the  strangers  was  a  woman!  Who  was 
she,  and  for  what  was  she  thus  distinguished  1  By  what  fatality 
came  she  to  find  repose  among  the  awful  manes  of  a  people, 
between  whom  and  her  own  the  hatred  was  so  deep  and  inex 
tinguishable —  ending  not  even  with  the  entire  overthrow  of  the 
superior  race  ?  The  sarcophagus  of  the  other  stranger  was  with 
out  an  inscription.  But  he,  too,  was  a  Roman  !  His  el' 
bet  raying  all  the  characteristics  of  his  people,  lay  at  length 
above  his  tomb  ;  a  noble,  youth,  with  features  of  exquisite  deli 
cacy  and  heauty.  yet,  distinguished  by  that  falcon  visa-re  which 
so  well  marked  the  imposing  features  of  the  great  masters  of 
the  ancient  world. 

The  wonder  and  delight  of  our  visitors  were  hardly  lessened, 
while  their  curiosity  was  stimulated  to  a  still  higher  degree  of 
intensity,  as  their  researches  led  them  to  another  discovery 
which  followed  the  further  examination  of  the  "  Grotta."  On 
the  right  of  the  entrance  they  happened  upon  one  of  those 


rm:   i'K<><  BHMNI  LS,  223 

exquisite  paintings,  in  which  the  Bruins  of  tin-  Ktruscan  proves 
anticipated,  though  it  may  never  have  rivalled  the 
ultimate  excellence  of  the  Greek.  The  piece  describes  a  fre 
quent  subject  of  ait  —  a  procession  of  souls  to  judgment,  under 
tin-  charge  of  good  and  evil  genii.  The  group  is  numei 
Tli-  eedom  and  expression  of  the  several  figures  an* 

'-.•lion  fine  ;  and,  with  two  exceptions,  the  effect  is 
exquisitely  grateful  to  the  spectator,  as  the  progress  seems  to  be 
one  to  eternal  delights.  Two  of  the  souls,  however,  are  not 

,  hut  convict  :  not  escaping,  hut  doomed  ;  not  looking  hope 
and  bliss,  but  despair  and  utter  misery.  One  of  these  is  clearly 
the  noble  youth  whose  effigy,  without  inscription,  appears  upon 
the  tomb.  He  is  one  of  the  Roman  intruders.  Behind  him, 
following  the  evil  genius  of  the  Etruscan  —  represented 

c-)li»s.sal  negro  — brutal  in  all  his  features,  exulting  fiend 
ishly  in  his  expression  of  countenance,  and  with  his  claws 
firmly  grasping  the  shoulders  of  his  victim.  His  brow  is  twined 
with  serpents  in  the  manner  of  a  lillet,  ami  his  left  hand  car 

:he  huge  mallet  with  which  the  demon  was  expected  to 
crush,  or  bruise  and  mangle,  the  prey  which  was  assigned  him. 

••tiler  unhappy  -,riul,  in  similar  keeping,  is  that  of  a  young 
woman,  whose  features  declare,  her  to  be  one  of  the  loveliest  of 
her  sex.  She  is  tall  an  1  majestic  ;  her  carriage  haughty  even 
in  her  wo,  and  her  face  equally  distinguished  by  the  highest 
phy  ity,  elevated  by  a  majesty  and  air  of  .sway,  which 

denoted  a  person  accustomed  to  the  habitual  exercise  of  her  own 
will.      But,  through    all    her   beauty  and    majesty,  there   are  the 

ft  of  that  agony  of  soul  which  p;i--eth  show  and  under- 
handing.  Two  big  drops  <  :  !mve  fallen,  and  rest,  upon 
her  cheeks,  the  only  tokens  which  her  large  Juno-like  eyes 

I  to  have  given  of  the  suffering  which  she  endures.  They 
still  (  -  undimnied  and  undaunted,  and  leave  it 

rather  to  the  brow,  the  lip-,  and  the  general  features  of  the  face 
to  declare  the  keen,  unutterable  \\  o  that    swells  within   her  soul, 
triumphant  equally  over  pride  and  beauty.      Nothing  can  10D 
in  ton -e  the  touching  expression  of  her  agony  unutterable,  unless 
in  the  sympatliizin.  .tion  of  him  who  looks  for  the  s«>:: 

of  th«  painter's  pencil  into  the  verv  bosom  nf  the  artist.     Imme 
diately  behind  this  beautiful  and  suffering  creature  is  seen, 


2:24  SOUTHWARD  HO  ! 

following,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Roman  youth  already  described, 
the  gloomy  and  hnitnl  demon  —  the  devil  of  Ktruscan  supersti 
tion —  a  negro  somewhat  less  dark  and  defm-med  than  the  other, 
and  seemingly  of  the  other  sex,  with  lo»>k>  lr^  t>-rrilde  and 
offensive,  but  whose  office  is  not  loss  certain,  and  whoso  features 
are  not  less  full  of  exultation  and  triumph.  She  does  not  actu 
ally  grasp  the  shoulders  of  her  victim,  but  she  has  her,  never 
theless,  beneath  her  clutches,  and  the  serpent  of  her  fillet,  with 
extended  head,  seems  momently  ready  to  dart  its  venomous 
fangs  into  the  white  bosom  that  shrinks,  yet  swells,  beneath 
its  eye. 

Long  indeed  did  this  terrible  picture  fix  and  fascinate  the 
eyes  of  the  spectators  ;  and  when  at  length  they  turned  away, 
it  was  only  to  look  back  and  to  meditate  upon  the  mysterious 
and  significant  scene  which  it  described.  In  proceeding  further, 
however,  in  their  search  through  the  "  Grotta,"  they  happened 
upon  another  discovery.  They  were  already  aware  that  the 
features  of  this  beautiful  woman  were  Roman  in  their  type. 
Indeed,  there  was  no  mistaking  the  inexpressible  majesty  of  that 
countenance,  which  could  belong  to  no  other  people.  It  was 
not  to  be  confounded  with  the  Etruscan,  which,  it  must  he 
remembered,  was  rather  (ireeian  or  Phoenician  in  its  character, 
and  indicated  grace  and  beauty  rather  than  strength,  subtlety 
and  skill  rather  than  majesty  and  command.  But,  that  there 
might  be  no  doubt  of  the  origin  of  this  lovely  woman,  examin 
ing  more  closely  the  effigy  upon  the  sarcophagus  first  discov 
ered —  having  removed  the  soil  from  the  features,  and  brought 
a  strong  light  to  bear  upon  them  —  they  were  found  to  be  those 
exactly  of  the  victim  thus  terribly  distinguished  in  the  painting. 

Mere,  then,  was  a  coincidence  involving  a  very  curious  mys 
tery.  About  the  facts  there  could  be  no  mistake.  Two  stran 
gers,  of  remarkable  feature,  find  their  burial,  against  all  usage, 
in  th«>  tumulus  of  an  ancient  Etruscan  family.  Both  are  young, 
of  different  sexes,  and  both  are  Roman.  Their  features  are 
carved  above  their  dust,  in  immortal  marble  —  we  may  almost 
call  it  so,  when,  after  two  thousand  years,  it  still  preserves  its 
trust ;  and  in  an  awful  procession  of  souls  to  judgment,  delin 
eated  by  a  hand  of  rare  excellence  and  with  rare  precision,  we 
find  the  same  persons,  rl-nwn  to  the  life,  and  in  the  custody. 


THK    DOOMKI)    ^TU  ANGERS.  225 

AS  doomed  victims,  of  the  terrible  tiend  of  Ktrusean  mythology. 
To  this  condition  some  terrible  fair  was  evidently  attached. 
Hoth  of  these  pictures  were  portraits.  For  tliat  matter,  all  were 
aits  in  the  numerDus  collection.  \Vith  those  two  excep 
tions,  the  rest  were  of  the  same  family,  and  their  several  fates, 
according  to  the  resolve  of  the  painter,  were  all  felicitous. 
Thev  walked  erect,  triumphant  in  hope  and  consciousness,  elas 
tic  in  their  tread,  and  joyous  in  their  features.  Not  so  these 
two:  the  outcasts  of  the  group —  //•////  but  not  <>f  them  —  pain- 
lully  contrasted  by  the  artist,  —  terribly  so  by  the  doom  of  the 
awful  Providence  whose  decree  he  had  ventured  thus  freely  to 
declare.  The  features  of  the  man  had  the  expression  of  one 
whom  a  just  self-esteem  moves  to  submit  in  dignity,  and  without 
complaint.  The  face  of  the  woman,  on  the  contrary,  is  full  of 
auguish,  though  still  distinguished  hy  a  degree  of  loftiness  and 
character  to  which  his  otters  no  pretension.  There  were  the 
portraits  and  there  the  effigies,  and  beneath  them,  in  their  stone 
coffins,  lay  the  fragments  of  their  mouldering  bones — the  relic 
of  two  thousand  years.  What  a  scene  had  the  artist  chosen  to 
transmit  to  posterity,  from  real  life  !  and  with  what  motive  \ 
By  what  terrible  .-ense  of  justice,  or  by  what  .strange  obliquity 
of  judgment  and  feeding,  did  the  great  Lucumo  of  the  Pomponii 
suffer  the  members  of  his  family  to  be  thus  offensively  perpetu 
ated  to  all  time,  in  the  place  of  family  sepulture?  Could  it 
have  been  the  inspiration  of  revenge  and  hatred,  by  which  this 
vivid  and  terrible  representation  was  wrought ;  and  what  was 
the  melancholy  history  nf  these  two  strangers  —  so  young,  so 
beautiful  —  thus  doomed  to  the  inexpiable  torments  of  the  end- 
future,  by  the  bold  anticipatory  awards  «.f  a  MtMttKHT  or  a 
contciuporar\  '.  To  these  (jin-stioiis  our  explorers  of  the  "  Gn-M.i 
del  Tiloi,--"  did  not  immediately  iind  an  answer.  That  they 
have  done  so  since,  tin-  reader  will  ascribe  to  the  keen  an 
with  which  they  have  groped  through  ancient  chronicles,  in 
search  of  an  event  which,  thus  wonderfully  preserved  by  art  for 
a  period  of  more  than  twenty  crnturiej?,  could  not.  as  they  well 
conjectured,  be  wholly  obliterated  from  all  other  mortal  records. 


226  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 


CHAPTER   II. 

Tm:  time  had  passed  when  Etruria  gave  laws  to  the  rest  of 
Italy.  Lars  Porsenna  was  already  in  his  grave,  and  his  mem 
ory,  rather  than  his  genius  and  spirit,  satisfied  the  Etruscan. 
The  progeny  of  the  She  Wolf*  had  risen  into  wondrous  strength 
and  power,  and  so  far  from  shrinking  within  their  walls  at  the 
approach  of  the  vulture  of  Volterra,  they  had  succeeded  in  clip 
ping  her  wings,  and  shortening,  if  not  wholly  arresting  her  flight. 
The  city  of  the  Seven  Hills,  looking  with  triumph  from  her  emi 
nences,  began  to  claim  all  within  her  scope  of  vision  as  her  own. 
Paralyzed  at  her  audacity,  her  success,  and  her  wonderful 
genius  for  all  the  arts  of  war,  the  neighboring  cities  began  to 
tremble  at  the  assertion  of  her  claims.  But  the  braver  and  less 
prudent  spirits  of  young  Etruria  revolted  at  this  assumption,  and 
new  wars  followed,  which  were  too  fierce  and  bloody  to  continue 
long.  It  needs  not  that  we  should  describe  the  varying  fortunes 
of  the  parties.  Enough  for  our  purposes  that,  after  one  well- 
fought  field,  in  which  the  Romans  triumphed,  they  bore  away, 
as  a  prisoner,  with  many  others,  Coelius,  the  youthful  Lucumo 
of  the  Pomponian  family.  This  young  man,  not  yet  nineteen, 
was  destined  by  nature  rather  for  an  artist  than  a  soldier.  He 
possessed,  in  remarkable  degree,  that  talent  for  painting  and 
statuary,  which  was  largely  the  possession  of  the  Etrurians ; 
and,  though  belonging  to  one  of  the  noblest  families  in  his  native 
city,  he  did  not  think  it  dishonorable  to  exercise  his  talent  with 
industry  and  devotion.  In  the  invasion  of  his  country  by  the 
fierce  barbarians  of  Rome,  he  had  thrown  aside  the  pencil  for 
the  sword,  in  the  use  of  which  latter  weapon  he  had  shown  him 
self  not  a  whit  less  skilful  and  excellent,  because  of  his  prefer 
ence  for  a  less  dangerous  implement.  His  captivity  was  irk 
some,  ratluM  than  painful  and  oppressive.  He  was  treated  with 
indulgence  by  his  captors,  and  quartered  for  a  season  in  the  fam 
ily  of  the  fierce  chief  by  whose  superior  prowess  he  had  been 
overthrown.  Here,  if  denied  his  freedom,  and  the  use  of  the 
sword,  he  was  not  denied  a  resumption  of  those  more  agreeable 
exercises  of  art  to  which  he  had  devoted  himself  before  his  cap- 

*Rome. 


Till)   RBU80Ati    WINS    A    ROMAN    BRIDK. 

tivity.  He  consoled  himself  in  this  condition  by  his  favorite 
studies.  !!<•  trained  the  vase  into  grace  and  beauty,  ad. >rned  its 
sides  with  groups  from  poetry  and  history,  and  liy  liis  labors  de 
lighted  the  uninitiated  eyes  of  all  around  him.  The  fierce  war 
rior  in  whose  custody  he  was,  looked  on  with  a  grim  sort  of  sat 
isfaction  at  the  development  of  arts,  for  which  his  appreciative 
faculties  were  small  ;  and  it  somewhat  lessened  our  young 
Etruscan  in  his  esteem,  that  he  should  take  pleasure  in  such 
employments.  At  all  events,  the  effects,  however  disparaging, 
were  so  far  favorable  that  they  tended  to  the  increase  of  his 
indulgences.  Hi*  restraints  were  fewer;  the  old  Roman  not 
Apprehending  much  danger  of  escape,  or  much  of  enter) 
from  one  whoso  tastes  were  so  feminine;  and  the  more  gentle 
,rds  of  the  family,  in  which  he  was  a  guest  perforce,  contrib 
uted  still  more  to  sweeten  and  soften  the  asperities  of  captivity. 
Lncumo  of  the  first  rank  in  Etruria,  be  also  claimed  peculiar 
indulgencies  from  a  people  who,  conscious  of  their  own  inferior 
origin,  were  not  by  any  means  insensible  to  the  merits  of  aris- 
ICJ.  Our  captive  was  accordingly  treated  with  a  deference 
which  was  as  grateful  to  his  condition  as  it  was  the  proper  trib 
ute  to  his  rank.  The  wife,  of  the  chief  whose  captive  he 
herself  a  noble  matron  of  Rome,  was  as  little  insensible  to  the 
rank  of  the  Etrurian,  as  she  was  to  the  equal  modesty  and  man 
liness  of  his  deportment.  Nor  was  she  alone  thus  made  av 
of  his  claims  and  virtues.  She  had  a  son  and  daughter,  the  lat 
ter  named  Amelia,  a  creature  of  the  most  imposing  beauty,  of  a 
loft\  spirit  and  carriage,  and  of  a  high  ami  generous  ambition. 
The  Id-other,  Lucius,  was  younger  than  herself,  a  lad  of  till' 
but  he,  like  his  sister,  became  rapidly  and  warmly  impn 
with  the  grace  of  manner  and  goodness  of  heart  which  distin 
guished  the  young  Etrurian.  They  both  learned  to  love  him; 
the  \outh.  probably,  with  quite  as  unreckoning  a  warmth  as  hid 

..e  heart  of  I'telius  long  untouched.      He 

perceived  the  exquisite  beauties  of  the  Roman  d.'imsrl.  and,  by 
the  usual  unfailing  symptoms,  revealed  the  truth  as  well  to  the 
family  of  the  maiden  as  t..  herself.  The  mother.  :  the 

secret  with  delight,  was  boon  a\\  are  of  the  condition  of  her 
daughter's  heart,  and,  the  relation*  of  the  sevnal  parties  being 
thus  understood,  it  waa  not  lung  before  thev  eame  to  an  e.\pla 


228  SOUTHWARD    HO ! 

nation,  which  ended  to  their  mutual  satisfaction.  Coplius  was 
soon  released  from  his  captivity,  and,  to  the  astonishment  of  all 
his  family,  returned  home,  bearing  with  him  the  beautiful  crea 
ture  by  whom  his  affections  had  been  so  suddenly  enslaved. 

CHAPTER     III. 

His  return  to  Tavquinia  was  hailed  with  delight  by  every 
member  of  his  family  but  one.  This  was  a  younger  brother, 
whose  position  had  been  greatly  improved  by  the  absence  and 
supposed  death  of  Ccelius.  He  cursed  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
heart  the  fate  which  had  thus  restored,  as  from  the  grave,  the 
shadow  which  had  darkened  his  own  prospects;  and,  though 
he  concealed  his  mortification  under  the  guise  of  a  joy  as  lively 
as  that  of  any  other  member  of  the  household,  he  was  torn  with 
secret  hate  and  the  most  fiendish  jealousy.  At  first,  however,  as 
these  feelings  were  quite  aimless,  he  strove  naturally  to  subdue 
them.  There  was  no  profitable  object  in  their  indulgence,  and 
he  was  one  of  those,  cunning  beyond  his  years,  who  entertain 
•in*  moods,  and  commit  no  crime,  unless  witli  the  distinct  hope  of 
;u-(juisition.  It  required  but  a  little  time,  however,  to  ripen 
other  feelings  in  his  soul,  by  which  the  former  were  rather 
st lengthened  than  diminished,  and  by  which  all  his  first,  and 
perhaps  feeble,  efforts  to  subdue  them  were  rendered  fruitless. 
In  the  first  bitter  mood  in  which  he  beheld  the  return  of  his 
In-other,  the  dec])  disappointment  which  he  felt,  with  the  neces- 
Mty  of  concealing  his  chagrin  from  every  eye,  prevented  him 
from  bestowing  that  attention  upon  the  wife  of  Cabins  which  her 
beauty,  had  his  thoughts  been  free,  must  inevitably  have  com 
manded.  With  his  return  to  composure,  however,  he  soon  made 
the  discovery  of  her  charms,  and  learned  to  love  them  with  a 
passion  scarcely  less  warm  than  that  which  was  felt  by  her  hus 
band.  Hence  followed  a  double  motive  for  hating  the  latter, 
and  denouncing  his  better  fortune.  Aruus  —  the  name  of  the 
younger  brother  —  was,  like  Cu'lins,  a  man  of  great  talent  and 
ingenuity  ;  but  Ins  talent,  informed  rather  by  his  passions  than 
by  his  tastes,  was  addressed  to  much  humbler  objects.  While 
the  one  was  creative  and  irentle  in  his  character,  the  other  was 
violent  and  destructive  ;  while  the  one  worshipped  beauty  for  its 


THE    SKKI'KXT    IX   THK    NEST. 

sake,  the  other  regarded  it  mil;  !ti>h  pur- 

poses.  Po?lius  was  tVank  and  generous  in  his  temper.  Anins 

.  ve.l.  suspicious  and  contracted.  The  one  had  IM  disguises, 
the  other  dwelt  within  tluMii.  even  as  a  spider  girdled  by  his 

,  and  lying  secret  in  tlio  crevice  at  its  bottom.  Hitherto, 
his  cunning  had  been  chiefly  exercised  in  concealing  itself,  in 
assuming  the  port  of  frankne».  in  appearing,  so  far  as  he  might, 
the  thing  that  he  was  not.  It  was  now  to  be  exeicised  for  his 
more  certain  profit,  in  schemes  hostile  to  the  peace  of  others. 
To  cloak  these  designs  he  betrayed  more  than  usual  joy  at  the 

•  ration  of  his  brother.      His,  indeed,  seemed  the  most  elated 
spirit    of    the    household,    and    the  confiding    and    unsuspecting 
Coelius.  at  once  took  him  to  his  heart,  with  all  the  warmth  and 
sincerity    of   boyhood.      It    gave    him    pleasure    to    perceive   that 
Anrelia,  his  wife,  received  him  as  a  brother,  and  lie  regarded  with 
delight  the  appearance  of  atVection  that  subsisted  between  them. 
The   three    soon  became  more  and  more  united  in  their  sympa 
thies  and  objects,  and  the  devotion  of  Anins  to   the  Roman  wife 
of  Coelius  was  productive  of  a    gratification  to  the   latter,  which 
lie  did  not  endeavor  to  conceal.      It  was  grateful  to  him  tliat  his 
brother   did    not    leave    his  wife    to    that    solitude   in   her  foreign 
home,  which  might  sometimes  h«ve  followed  his  own  too  int. 

•  Mon  to  the  arts  which  he    so    passionately  loved  :    and,  with 
out  a  fear  that  his  faith  might  be  mi-placed,  he  left  to  Aruns  the 
duty  which  no  husband  might  prudently  devolve  upon  any  man. 
of  ministering    to    tho.-.e    tftfltaf    and    atVections.  the  most  delicate 
and  sacred,  which  make  of  »-\ vrv  family  circle  a  temple  in  which 
the  father,  and  the  husband,  and  the  master,  should  alone  be  the 
officiating  pri--si. 

Some  time  bad  passed  in  this  manner,  and  at  length  it  struck 
our  Lucnmo  that  there  uas  less  cordiality  between  his  brother 
and  his  wit'.-  than  had  pleased  him  so  much  at  first.  Aurelia 
now  no  longer  -poke  of  Aruns  —his  name  r  iped  her 

lips,  unlf-^  \vhen  she  \vas  unavoidably  forced  to  speak  it  in 
reply.  ]\'\<  approaches  to  her  wen-  marked  by  a  timidity  not 
usual  with  him.  and  by  a  tmitttur  in  her  countenance  which  was 
shown  to  no  other  person.  It  was  a  proof  <.f  the  superior  loyc  of 
Ooplius  for  his  wife  that  lie  reproached  her  for  this  seeming  dis 
like.  She  ha  filed  bis  inquiry,  met  his  reproaches  with  renewed 


230  sni'THWARl)    HO  ! 

shows  of  tenderness,  nwl  the  fond,  confiding  hushnnrl  resumed 
his  labors  on  the  beautiful,  with  perhaps  too  little  regard  to  what 
was  going  on  around  him.  Meanwhile,  the  expression  in  the 
face  of  Aurelia  had  been  gradually  deepening  into  gravity.  Care 
was  clouding  her  brow,  and  an  air  of  anxiety  manifested  itself 
upon  her  cheek  —  a  look  of  apprehension  —  as  if  some  danger 
were  impending  —  some  great  fear  threatening  in  her  heart. 
This  continued  for  some  time,  when  she  became  conscious  that 
the  eye  of  her  husband  began  to  be  fixed  inquiringly  upon  her, 
and  with  the  look  of  one  dissatisfied,  if  not  doubtful  —  disturbed 
if  not  suspicious  —  and  with  certain  sensibilities  rendered  acute 
and  watchful,  which  had  been  equally  confiding  and  affectionate 
before.  These  signs  increased  her  disquiet,  deepened  her  anxi 
ety.  But  she  was  silent.  The  glances  of  her  husband  were  full 
of  appeal,  but  she  gave  them  no  response.  She  could  but  re 
tire  from  his  presence,  and  sigh  to  herself  in  solitude.  There, 
was  evident!}-  a  mystery  in  this  conduct,  and  the  daily  increas 
ing  anxieties  of  the  husband  betrayed  his  doubts  lest  it  might 
prove  a  humiliating  one  at  the  solution.  But  he,  too,  was  silent. 
His  pride  forbade  that  he  should  declare  himself  when  he  could 
only  speak  of  vague  surmises  and  perhaps  degrading  suspicions 
He  was  silent,  but  not  at  ease.  His  pleasant  labors  of  the  studio 
were  abandoned.  Was  it  for  relief  from  his  own  thoughts  that 
he  was  now  so  frequently  in  company  with  Aruns,  or  did  he 
hope  to  obtain  from  the  latter  any  clue  to  the  mystery  which 
disturbed  his  household  ?  It  was  not  in  the  art  of  Aurelia  so  to 
mould  the  expression  of  her  countenance  as  to  hide  from  others 
the  anxiety  which  she  felt  in  the  increasing  and  secret  commun 
ion  of  the  brothers.  She  watched  their  departure  with  dread, 
and  witnessed  their  return  together  with  agitation.  She  saw,  or 
fancied  she  a\v,  in  the  looks  of  the  younger,  a  malignant  exul 
tation  which  even  his  habitual  cunning  did  not  suffer  him  en 
tirely  to  conceal. 

CHAPTER     IV. 

AT  length  the  cloud  seemed  to  clear  away  from  the  brow  ol 
her  husband.  He  once  more  resumed  his  labors,  and  with  an 
avidity  which  he  had  not  betrayed  before.  His  passion  now 


THK    SKrKKT    I.AMnR.  281 

tBMHinted    to    intensity.      He    -a\<-    himself  no  respite   from   his 
nils.      Late  and    early  lie  was   at    his   ta^-k  —  morning  and  night 

—  without  intermission,  and  with  the  enthusiasm  of  one  wh 
joices  in  the  completion  of  a   favorite   and  long-cherished  study. 
Aurelia  wa>  not  unhappy  at  this  second  change;  to  go  hack  to 
his  old  engagements  and  tastes  seemed  to  her  to  indicate   a   re 
turn   t.i   hi-   former  equanimity  and  waveless  happiness.     It  ua- 
with   some  surprise,  however,  and  not  a  little  concern,  that   --h,- 

not  now  permitted  to  watch  his  progress.  He  wrought  in 
-ecret  l.is  studio  was  closed  against  her,  as,  indeed,  it 

Oft  all  persons.  Hitherto  it  had  not  been  so  in  her  instance. 
She  pleasantly  reproached  him  for  this  seclusion,  hut  lie  an 
swered  her  —  "Fear  not,  you  shall  see  all  when  it  is  done." 
There  was  something  in  this  reply  to  disquiet  her,  but  she  wa< 
in  a  state  of  mind  easily  to  he  disquieted. 

She  was  conscious  also  of  a  secret  withheld  from  her  husband 

—  and  her  reproaches  sunk  hack  upon  her  heart,  unuttered,  from 
her  lips.     She  could  not,  because  of  what  she  felt,  declare  to  hiir 
what  she  thought ;  and  she  beheld  his  progress,  from  day  today 
with  an  apprehension  that  increased  momently,  and  made  her 
appearance,  in   one   respect,  not   unlike   his  own.      She   was   not 
aware  that  he  was  the  victim  of  a  strange  excitement,  in  which 
his  present   artist  labors  had  a  considerable  share.      He  seemed 
to  hurry   to    their    prosecution   with    an    eager   impatience   that 
looked    like    fren/y — and    to   return    fnun    his   daily  task  with    a 
frame  exhausted,  but  with  an  eye  that    M-emed  to  hum  with  the 
Piihth-st  fires.      His  words  were  tew,  but  there  wa-  a  -trance  intel 
ligence  in  his  looks.     His  cheeks  had  grown  very  pale,  his  frame 

'hinned.  his  voice  made  hollow,  in  the  prosecution  of  these 
:  and  yet  there  was  a  something  of  exultation  in 
his  glance,  which  fully  declared  that,  however  exhausting  to  his 
frame  mi^ht  he  the  task  he  was  pursuing,  its  results  \\ere  yet 
looked  to  with  a  wild  and  eager  satisfaction.  At  length  the 
work  was  done.  (  >ne  day  he  .stood  before  her  in  an  attitude  of 
utter  exhaustion.  "  It  is  finished  !"  he  exclaimed.  "You  shall 
Bee  it  to-morrow." 

"  What  is  it  .'"   she  asked. 

•morrow  '    to-n.oirnw  I" 
He  then  retired  to  slerj..  and  rested  several  hours.     She  looked 


232  SOUTHWARD    1!<»  ! 

on  him  while  he  slept.  He  had  never  rested  so  profoundly  since 
he  had  begun  the  labor  from  which  he  was  now  freed.  The 
slumber  of  an  infant  was  never  more  calm,  was  never  soft 
er,  sweeter,  or  purer.  The  beauty  of  Coelius  was  that  of  the 
most  peaceful  purity.  She  bent  over  bhr  as  lie  slept,  and  kissed 
his  forehead  with  lips  of  the  truest  devotion,  while  two  big  tears 
gathered  in  her  large  eyes,  and  slowly  felt  their  way  along  her 
cheeks.  She  turned  away  lest  the.  warm  drops  falling  upon  his 
face  might  awake  him.  She  turned  away,  and  in  her  own  apart 
ment  gave  free  vent  to  the  feelings  which  his  pure  and  placid 
slumbers  seemed  rather  to  subdue  than  encourage.  Why,  with 
such  a  husband  —  her  first  love  —  and  with  so  many  motives  to 
happiness,  was  she  not  happy  1  Alas  !  who  shall  declare  for 
the  secret  yearnings  of  the  heart,  and  say,  as  idly  as  Canute  to 
the  sea,  "thus  far  shalt  them  go,  and  no  farther  —  here  shall  thy 
proud  waves  be  stayed."  Aurclia  was  a  creature  of  fears  and 
anxieties,  and  many  a  secret  and  sad  presentiment.  She  was 
very  far  from  happy  —  ill  at  ease  —  and  —  but  why  anticipate  ? 
We  shall  soon  enough  arrive  at  the  issue  of  our  melancholy  nar 
rative  ! 

That  night,  while  she  slept — for  grief  and  apprehension  have 
their  periods  of  exhaustion  which  we  misname  repose  —  her  hus 
band  rose  from  his  couch,  and  with  cautious  footsteps  departed 
from  his  dwelling.  He  was  absent  all  the  night  and  returned 
only  with  the  dawn.  He  re-entered  his  home  with  the  same 
stealthy  caution  with  which  he  had  quitted  it,  and  it  might  have 
been  remarked  that  he  dismissed  his  brother,  with  two  other 
persons,  at  the  threshold.  They  were  all  masked,  and  other 
wise  disguised  with  cloaks.  Why  this  mystery  ?  Where  had 
they  been  —  on  what  mission  of  mischief  or  of  shame?  To 
Coelius,  such  a  necessity  was  new,  and  scarcely  had  lie  entered 
his  dwelling  than  he  cast  aside  his  disguises  with  the  air  of  one 
who  loathes  their  uses.  He  was  very  pale  and  haggard,  with  a 
fixed  but  glistening  expression  of  the  eye,  a  brow  of  settled 
gloom,  from  which  hope  ;md  faith,  and  every  interest  in  life 
seemed  utterly  to  be  banished.  A  single  groan  escaped  him 
when  he  stood  alone,  and  then  he  raised  himself  erect,  as  if 
hitherto  lie  had  leaned  upon  tbe  arms  of  others.  He,  carried 
Simself  firmly  and  loftily,  his  lips  compressed,  his  eye  eagerly 


THE    DK.vn;HT.  233 

looking  forward  ;  and  thus,  after  tin-  interval  of  a  few  seconds, 
he  passed  to  the  chamber  of  his  wife.  And  still  she  slept.  He 
bent  over  her,  earnestly  and  intently  gazing  up«»n  those  beauties 
which  grief  seemed  onlv  to  sadden  into  superior  sweetncr/s.  lie. 
looked  upon  her  with  tlnxe  earnest  eyes  of  love,  the  expression 
of  which  can  never  be  misunderstood.  Still  he  loved  her,  though 
between  her  heart  and  his,  a  high,  unpayable  barrier  had  been 
raised  up  by  the  machinations  of  a  guilty  spirit.  Tender: 
W9t  the  prevailing  character  of  his  glance  until  she  spoke.  Her 
sleep,  though  deep,  was  not  wholly  undisturbed.  Fearful  images 

-eil    her   fancy.      She  Carted    and    sobbed,  and  cried.  "  S 
n   ^ive   and   spare   him  —  Flavins,  my   dear  Flavins!"  and  her 

•liing  again  became  free,  and  her  lips  sunk  mice  more  into 
repose.  But  fearful  was  the  change,  from  a  saddened  tender- 
ness  t»  ;iLr"iiy  and  despair,  which  parsed  over  the  features  of 
radius  as  he  listened  to  her  cry.  Suddenly,  striking  his  clenched 
bands  against  his  forehead,  he  shook  them  terribly  at  the  sleep 
ing  woman,  and  rushed  wildly  out  of  the  apartment. 

•    H A  PTKR    V. 

IT  *M  noon  of  the  same  day  —  a  warm  and  sunny  noon,  in 
which  the  birds  aiul  the  breeze  equally  counselled  pleasure  and 
ri'po>e.  The  viands  stood  before  ,,ur  Co-lius  and  his  wife,  the 
choicest  fruits  ,,f  Italy,  and  rates  which  might  not,  in  later  days, 
have  niisheseemed  the  favorite  chambers  of  I.ncullus.  The  gob 
let  wa-  lifted  iii  the  hands  of  both,  and  the  heart  of  Aurelia  felt 
almost  afi  cheerful  a  the  e^pwosion  on  her  face.  It  was  the 
rctlection  in  the  face  of  her  husband.  His  hr<>\\  was  gloottj  no 
longer.  The  tones  of  his  \oice  \\ere  neither  cold,  nor  angry, 
nor  desponding  A  change  —  she  knew  not  why  —  had  coinr 
over  his  spirit,  and  he  smiled,  nay.  laughed  nut.  in  the  ve:  • 
ult.-.tion  of  a  new  life.  Aurelia  conjectured  nothing  of  this  SO 
sudden  change.  Knongh  that  it  was  grateful  to  her  soui.  She 
w;«-  to.»  happy  in  its  influence  to  inquire  into  its  <  au-e.  What 
heart  that  is  happy  does  inquire/  She  .jiiatVe-1  tln-gobb-t  at  his 
bidding  —  quahVd  it  to  the  dregs  —  and  her  eve  gleamed  delighted 
and  delightfully  upon  his.  e\en  as  in  the  first  hours  of  their  union 
She  had  no  apprehensions  —  dreaded  nothing  sinister — and  did 


234  SOUTHWARD    HO ! 

not  perceive  that  ever,  at  the  close  of  his  laughter,  there  was  a  con 
vulsive  quiver  in  his  tones,  a  sort  of  hysterical  sobbing,  that  he 
seemed  to  try  to  subdue  in  vain.  She  noticed  not  this,  nor  the 
glittering,  almost  spectral  brightness  of  his  glance,  as,  laughing 
tumultuously,  he  still  kept  his  gaze  intently  fixed  upon  her.  She 
was  blind  to  all  things  but  the  grateful  signs  of  his  returning 
happiness  and  attachment.  Once  more  the  goblet  was  lifted. 
"  To  Turmes  [Mercury]  the  conductor,"  cried  the  husband.  The 
wife  drank  unwittingly  —  for  still  her  companion  smiled  upon 
her,  and  spoke  joyfully,  and  she  was  as  little  able  as  willing  to 
perceive  that  anything  occult  occurred  in  his  expression. 

"  Have  you  drank  ?"  he  asked. 

She  smiled,  and  laid  the  empty  goblet  before  him. 

"  Come,  then,  you  shall  now  behold  the  picture.  You  will 
now  be  prepared  to  understand  it." 

They  rose  together,  but  another  change  had  overspread  his 
features.  The  gayety  had  disappeared  from  his  face.  It  was 
covered  with  a  calm  that  was  frightful.  The  eye  still  main 
tained  all  its  eager  intensity,  but  the  lips  were  fixed  in  the  icy 
mould  of  resolution.  They  declared  a  deep,  inflexible  purpose. 
There  was  a  corresponding  change  in  his  manner  and  deport 
ment.  But  a  moment  before  he  was  all  life,  grace,  gayety  and 
great  flexibility  ;  he  was  now  erect,  majestic  and  commanding 
in  aspect,  with  a  lordly  dignity  in  his  movement,  that  declared 
a  sense  of  a  high  duty  to  be  done.  Amelia  was  suddenly  im 
pressed  with  misgivings.  The  change  was  too  sudden  not  to  star 
tle  her.  Her  doubts  and  apprehensions  were  not  lessened  when, 
instead  of  conducting  her  to  the  studio,  win-re  she  expected  to 
see  the  picture,  he  led  the  way  through  the  vestibule  and  into 
the  open  court  of  the  palace.  They  lingered  but  for  a  moment 
at  the  entrance,  and  she  then  beheld  his  brother  Aruns  approach 
ing.  To  him  she  gave  not  a  look 

"All  is  riprht,"  said  the  latter. 

"  Enter  !"  was  the  reply  of  Orelius  ;  and  as  the  brother  disap 
peared  within  the  vestibule,  the  two  moved  forward  through  the 
outer  gate.  They  passed  through  a  lovely  wood,  shady  and 
silent,  through  which,  subdued  by  intervening  leaves,  gleamed 
only  faintly  the  bright,  clear  sun  of  Italy.  From  under  the 
huge  chestnuts,  on  either  hand,  the  majestic  gods  of  Etruria  ex- 


•lili:    BMTBAKCi   T«.    IHK    HALLS   «>F  SILENCE. 

tended  their  guiding  and  endowing  hands.  Tina,  or  Jupiter, 
Aplu,  «>r  Apollo,  Erkle,  Turrnes,  and  the  rest,  all  conducting 
them  along  the  ria  sacra,  which  led  from  the  palaces  to  the 
tombs  of  every  proud  Etruscan  family.  They  entered  the  sol 
emn  grove  which  was  dedicated  to  night  and  silence,  and  were 
about  to  ascend  the  gradual  slopes  by  which  the  tumulus  was 
approached.  Then  it  was  that  the  misgivings  of  Aurelia  took  a 
more  serious  ibnn.  She  felt  a  vague  but  oppressive  fear.  She 
hesitated. 

"  My  Crelius,"  she  exclaimed,  "  whither  do  we  go  ?  Is  not 
this  the  passage  to  the  house  of  silence?" 

"Do  you  not  know  it?"  he  demanded  quickly,  and  fixing 
ujM'ii  her  a  keen  inquiring  glance.  "  Come!"  he  continued,  "  it 
is  there  that  I  have  fixed  the  picture  !" 

"  Alas  !  my  Coelius,  wherefore  ?  It  is  upon  this  picture  that 
you  have  been  ><•  deeply  engaged.  It  has  made  you  sad  —  it 
has  left  us  both  unhappy.  Let  us  not  go  —  let  me  not  see  it !" 
Her  agitation  was  greatly  increased.  He  saw  it,  and  his  face 
put  on  a  look  of  desperate  exultation. 

A\,  but  thou  must  see  it  —  thou  shalt  look  upon  it  and  he- 
hold  my  triumph,  my  greatest  triumph  in  art,  and  perhaps  my 
last.  I  shall  never  touch  pencil  more,  ami  wilt  thou  refuse  to 
look  upon  my  last  and  noblest  work.  Fie  !  this  were  a  wrong 
to  me,  and  a  great  shame  in  thee,  Aurelia.  Come!  the  toil  of 
which  thou  think'bt  but  coldly,  has  brought  me  peace  rather  than 
sadne.ss.  It  has  made  of  death  a  thing  rather  familiar  than  of 
fensive.  If  it  has  deprived  me  of  hopes,  it  has  left  me  without 
•rs  !" 

1  >eprived  you  .,f  hopes,'  my  Coelius,"  said  the  wife,  still  lin- 
g»Tiii£,  and  in  mortal  terror. 

•  •  Even 

"  And,  wherefore,  O,  my  husband,  wherefore  ?" 
14  Speak  not,  woman!     See  you  not  that  we  are  within  the 
shadow  .if  the  tomb  ?" 

I  H  us  not  apprn.-irh —  let  us  p»  hence!"  she  exclaimed  en- 

.u^lv.   with  ilu-reasin^  a-it;iii«>n. 

•  A  v,  shrink'st  thou  !"  he  answered  ;  "  well  thou  may 'si.     The 
fa.'Jiers  of  the   l'..mp«tnii.  f..r    two  thousand  years,  are    no\\    liuat- 
iug   aiound    its  on    their   >i^htle»   \\in^>.      They   \\onder   that  a 


236  SOUTHWARD  HO! 

Roman  woman  should  draw  nigh  to  the  dwellings  of  our  ancient 
Lucumones." 

"A  Roman  woman!"  she  exclaimed  reproachfully.  "My 
Coelius,  wherefore  this  ?" 

"  Art  thou  not  ?" 

"  I  am  thy  wife." 

"  Art  sure  of  that  ?" 

"  As  the  gods  live  and  look  upon  us,  I  am  thine,  this  hour  and 
for  ever !" 

"May  the  gods  judge  thee,  woman,"  he  responded  slowly,  as 
he  paused  at  the  gate  of  the  mausoleum,  and  fixed  his  eyes  in 
tently  upon  her.  Hers  were  raised  to  heaven,  with  her  uplifted 
hands.  She  did  not  weep,  and  her  grief  was  still  mixed  with  a 
fearful  agitation. 

"  Let  us  now  return,  my  Coelius  !" 

"  What,  wilt  thou  not  behold  the  picture  ?" 

"  Not  now  —  at  another  season.    I  could  not  look  upon  it  now  !" 

"Alas!  woman,  but  this  can  not  be.  Thou  must  behold  it 
now  or  never.  Hope  not  to  escape.  Enter!  I  have  a  tale  to 
tell  thee,  and  a  sight  to  show  thee  within,  which  thou  canst  not 
near  or  see  hereafter.  Enter!"  As  he  spoke,  he  applied  the 
key  to  the  stone  leaf,  and  the  door  slowly  revolved  ujmn  the 
massy  pivots.  She  turned  and  would  have  fled,  but  he  grasped 
her  by  the  wrist,  and  moved  toward  the  entrance.  She  carried 
her  freed  hand  to  her  forehead  —  parted  tin1  hair  from  her  eyes, 
and  raised  them  pleadingly  to  heaven.  Resistance  she  saw  was 
vain.  Her  secret  was  discovered.  She  prepared  to  enter,  but 
slowly.  "Enter!  Dost  thou  fear  now,"  cried  her  hu.sband, 
14  when  commanded  ?  Hast  thou  not,  thou,  a  Roman,  ventured 
already  to  penetrate  these  awful  walls,  given  to  silence  and  the 
dead — and  on  what  mission?  Enter,  as  I  bid  thee!" 

Ml  A  I'T  KR       . 

SHE  obeyed  him,  shuddering  and  silent.  He  followed  her. 
closed  the  entrance,  and  fastened  it  within.  They  were  alone 
among  the  dead  of  a  thousand  \  ears —  alone,  but  not  in  dark- 
ne™».  The  hand  of  preparation  had  lu-en  there,  and  cressets 
were  burning  upon  the  walls;  their  lights,  reflected  from  the 


ACCUSATION.  liliT 

numerous  shieltU  of  bronze  within  tin-  apartment,  shedding  a 
strange  aiul  fantastic  splendor  upon  the  scene.  The  eyes  of 
Aurelia  rapidly  explored  the  chamber  as  if  in  search  of  some  ex 
pected  object.  Those  of  Co'lius  watched  them  with  an  expre-- 
sion  of  scornful  triumph,  which  did  not  escape  her  glance.  She 
firmly  met  his  gaze,  almost  inquiringly,  while  her  hands  wer° 
involuntarily  and  convulsively  clasped  together. 

"  Whom  dost  thou  seek,  Aurelia  .'" 

I'hou   kin'w'st  !    thou   know'st  ! —  where  is  he?     Tell  me, 
my  (Joelius,  that  he  is  .sale,  that  thou  hast  sped  him  hence  - 
that  I  may  ble»  ti 

He  smiled  significantly  as  he  replied,  "He  is  safe  —  I  have 
sped  him  hence  !" 

"  Tinai  [Adonaij,  my  husband,  keep  thee  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand." 

"  How  !  shameless  !  dost  thou  dare  so  much  ?'' 

'•What  mean'st  thou,  my  Coelius  /" 

41  Sit  thou  there,"  he  answered,  "  till  I  show  thee  my  picture." 
He  pointed  her.  a>  lie  sjmke,  to  a  new  sarcophagus,  upon  which 
she  placed  herself  submissively.  Then,  with  a  wand  in  his  hand, 
he,  himself,  seated  upon  another  coffin  of  stone,  pointed  her  to  a 
curtain  which  covered  one  uf  the  -ides  of  the  chamber.  ••  He- 
hind  that  curtain.  Aurelia.  is  the  last  work  of  my  hands;  but 
before  I  unveil  it  to  thine  eyes,  let  me  tell  thee  its  melancholy 
history.  It  will  not  wed  many  words  for  this.  Much  of  it  is 
known  to  thee  already.  llo\v  I  found  thee  in  Uon.e,  \\hen  1 
was  there  a  captive — how  I  loved  thee,  and  how  1  believed  in 
thy  assurances  of  love;  all  these  things  thou  knou'st.  We 
wedded,  and  I  brought  thee.  a  Roman  \\omai:,  heM  a  baibaiian 
by  my  people,  into  the  palace  of  one  of  the,  proudest  families  of 
all  Etruria.  Shall  I  tell  thee  that  I  loved  thee  still  — that  1 
love  thee  e\en  now,  \\lien  I  ha\e  most  reason  to  hat*-  thee, 
when  1  know  thy  perjury,  thy  cold  heart,  thy  hot  lust,  thy  base, 
degrading  pMiions !" 

"  11  'Id,  my  lord  —  .say  not  these  things  to  my  grief  and  thy 
dishonor.  They  \\nmg  me  not  less  than  thy  «»\\n  name, 
riiege  things,  poured  into  thine  ear  by  some  sect  . ,  are 

false!" 

"Thin  wilt  not  swear  it  .'' 


SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"fcy  all  the  gods  of  Rome — " 

"And  of  what  avail,  and  how  binding  the  oath  taken  in  the 
names  of  the  barbarian  deities  of  Rome." 

44  By  the  Etrurian — " 

"  Perjure  not  thyself,  woman,  but  hear  me." 

"  Go  on,  my  lord,  I  will  hear  thee,  though  I  suffer  death  with 

ery  word  thou  speak'st." 

"It  is  well,  Aurelia,  that  thou  art  prepared  for  this." 

'•  Thy  dagger,  my  Coslius,  were  less  painful  than  thy  words 
and  looks  unkind." 

"  Never  was  I  unkind,  until  I  found  thee  false." 

"Never  was  I  false,  my  lord,  even  when  thou  wast  unkind." 

••  Woman  !  lie  not!  thou  wert  discovered  with  thy  paramour, 
here,  in  this  tomb  ;  thou  wert  followed,  day  by  day,  and  all  thy 
secret  practices  betrayed.  This  thou  ow'st  to  the  better  vigi 
lance  of  my  dear  brother  Aruns  —  he,  more  watchful  of  my  hon 
or  than  myself — " 

"Ah!  well  I  know  from  what  hand  came  the  cruel  shaft! 
CoBlius,  my  Ccfelius,  thy  brother  is  a  wretch,  doomed  to  infamy 
and  black  with  crime.  I  have  had  no  paramour.  I  might  havo 
had,  and  thou  might'st  have  been  dishonored,  had  I  hearkened 
to  thy  brother's  pleadings.  I  spurned  him  from  my  feet  with 
loathing,  and  he  requites  me  with  hate.  Oh,  my  husband,  be 
lieve  me,  and  place  this  man,  whom  thou  too  fondly  callest  thy 
brother,  before  thine  eyes  and  mine  !" 

"  Alas !  Aurelia,  this  boldness  becomes  thee  not.  I  myself 
traced  thee  to  this  tomb  —  these  eyes  but  too  frequently  beheld 
thee  witli  thy  paramour." 

"  Ocelius,  as  I  live,  he  was  no  paramour — but  where  is  he, 
what  i;a>t  thou  done  with  him?" 

"  S  -lit  him  before  thee  to  prepare  thy  couch  in  Hades!" 

"Oh,  brother  !  —  but  thou  hast  not !  tell  me,  my  lord,  that  thy 
hand  is  free  from  this  bloody  crime  !" 

"  He  sleeps  beneath  thee.  It  is  upon  his  sarcophagus  thou 
sittest." 

She  started  with  a  piercing  shriek  from  the  coffin  where  she 
sat,  knelt  beside  it,  and  strove  to  remove  the  heavy  stone  lid. 
which  had  been  already  securely  fastened.  While  thus  engaged 


THE  ri»Tn:i:  r\vKii.F:i». 

the  Lucumo  drew  aside   with    liis   hand  tin-  curtain  which  con 
cealed  the  picture. 

44  Look,"  said  he,  "  woman,  behold  the  fate  which  thou  and 
thy  paramour  have  received  —  behold  the  task  which  I  had  set 
me  when  first  I  had  been  shown  thy  perjui;.  I  ok!" 

She  arose  in  silence  from  her  knees,  and  turned  her  eyes  upon 
the  picture.  As  the  curtain  was  >!<>\vlv  unrolled  from  before  it, 
and  she  conceived  the  awful  subject,  and  distinguished,  under 
the  care  of  the  good  and  guardian  genii,  the  shades  of  well-known 
members  of  the  romponian  family,  her  interest  was  greatly  ex 
cited  ;  but  when,  following  in  the  train  and  under  the  grasp  of 
the  Ktrurian  demon,  she  beheld  the  features  of  the  young  Roman 
wh«.  was  doomed,  -he  bounded  forward  with  a  cry  of  agony. 

"My  brother,  my  Flavin-,  my  own,  my  only  brother  !"  and 
sunk  down  with  outstretched  arms  before  the  melancholy  shade. 

••Her  brother!"  exclaimed  the  husband.  She  heard  the 
words  and  rose  rapidly  to  her  feet. 

,  Flavins,  my  brother,  banished  from  Rome,  and  con 
cealed  here  in  thy  house  of  silence,  concealed  even  from  thee, 
my  husband,  as  I  would  not  vex  thee  with  the  anxieties  of  an 
Ftrurian  noble,  lest  Rome  should  hear  and  punish  the  people  hv 
whom  her  outlaw  was  protected.  Thou  knowVt  my  crime.  Thi-* 
paramour  was  the  brother  of  my  heart  —  child  of  the  same 
and  dame — a  noble  heart,  a  pure  -j-irit.  whos,-  very  virtues  have 
been  the  cause  of  his  disgrace  at  R<>me.  Slay  me,  if  thou  wilt, 
but  tell  me  not,  0,  Coelius,  that  thou  hast  put  the  hands  of  hate 
upon  my  brother  !" 

44  Thy  tale   is  false,  woman  —  well-planned,  but  false.      K- 
I  not  thy  brother  ?    Did  I  not  know  thy  brother  well   in  Rome? 
Went   we    not    together  oft?      I    tell    thee,    I    .should    know    him 
among  a  line  of  ten  thousand  Romans!" 

41  Alas  '  alas1  my  husband,  if  ever  I  had  brother,  then  i<  this 
he.  I  tell  thee  nothing  but  the  truth.  Of  a  surety,  when  th»u 
writ  in  Rome,  my  brother  wa>  known  to  thee.  but  the  boy  hap 
ism  become  a  man.  Seven  ymrs  have  winight  a  change  upon 
him  of  which  thou  hast  not  thought.  Believe  me.  what  I  tell 
•lire —  the  youth  ulmm  I  sheltered  in  this  vault,  ami  to  whom  1 
brought  f.nd  nightly.  \\  as.  imleed.  my  brother — nsy  Flavins,  the 
only  son  of  my  mother.  wh<»  sent  him  to  me,  with  fond  wor 


J40  SMITHWAKD    HO! 

entreaty,  when  the  consuls  of  the  city  bade  him  depart  in  ban 
ishment." 

"  1  can  not  believe  thee,  woman.  It  were  a  mortal  agony, 
far  beyond  what  I  feel  in  the  conviction  of  thy  guilt,  were  I  to 
yield  faith  to  thy  story.  It  is  thy  paramour  whom  I  have  slain, 
and  who  sleeps  in  that  tomb.  His  portrait  and  his  judgment  are 
he-fore  thee,  and  now —  look  on  thine  own  !" 

The  picture,  fully  displayed,  showed  to  the  wretched  woman 
her  own  person,  in  similar  custody  with  him  who  was  her  sup 
posed  paramour.  The  terrible  felicity  of  the  execution  struck 
her  to  the  soul.  It  was  a  picture  to  live  as  ;i  work  of  art,  and 
to  this  she  was  not  insensible.  She  clasped  her  hands  before  it, 
and  exclaimed, 

"  Oh  !  my  Coelius,  what  a  life  hast  tliou  given  to  a  lie.  Yet 
may  I  bear  the  terrors  of  such  a  doom,  if  he  whom  thou  hast 
painted  there  in  a  fate  full  of  dreadful  fellowship  with  mine,  was 
other  than  my  brother  Flavins  —  he  with  whom  thou  didst  love 
to  play,  and  to  whom  thou  didst  impart  the  first  lessons  in  the 
ait  which  lie  learned  to  love  from  thee.  Dost  hear  me,  my  Coe 
lius,  as  my  soul  lives,  this  man  was  none  other  than  my  brother." 

"  False  !  false  !  I  will  not,  dare  not  believe  thee  !"  he  answered 
in  husky  accents.  His  frame  was  trembling,  yet  he  busied  him 
self  in  putting  on  a  rich  armor,  clothing  himself  in  military  garb, 
from  head  to  foot,  as  if  going  into  action. 

"  What  do>t  thou,  my  lord  ?"  demanded  Aurelia,  curious  as  she 
beheld  him  in  this  occupation. 

"  This,"  said  he,  "  is  the  armor  in  which  I  fought  with  Rome 
when  I  was  made  the  captive  of  thy  people,  and  thine.  It  is 
fit  that  1  should  wear  it  now,  when  I  am  once  more  going  into 
captivity." 

"My  husband,  what  mean'st  thou — of  what  captivity  dost 
thou  speak  1" 

"The  captivity  of  death!  Hear  me,  Aurelia,  dost  thou  feel 
nothing  at  thy  heart  which  tells  thee  of  the  coming  struggle 
when  the  smil  shakes  oft' the  reluctant  flesh,  and  strives,  as  it  were, 
for  freedom.  Is  there  no  chill  in  thy  veins,  no  sudden  pang,  as 
of  tire  in  thy  breast?  These  speak  in  me.  They  warn  me  of 
death.  We  are  both  summoned.  But  a  little  while  is  left  of 
life  to  either!" 


TOO    LATE  !  241 

•Have   mercy,  Jove  !    I  feel  these  pains,  this  chill,  this  fire 
that  thou  speak'st  of." 

••  It   is  death  !   the  goblet  which  I  gave  thee,  and  of  which  I 
drank  the  first  and  largest  draught,  was  drugged  with  death." 

••  Then —  it  is  all  tme  !     Thou  hast  in  truth  slain  my  brother. 
Thou  ha.st — thou  hast  !" 

••  Nay,  he  was  not  thy  brother,  Aurelia.     Why  wilt  thou  for 
swear  thyself  at  this  terrible  moment  ?      It   is   vain.     Wouldrt 
thon  lie  to  death  —  wouldst  thou  carry  an  impure  face  of  perjury 
:e  the  seat  of  the  Triune  Gcd  !  Beware  !   Confess  thy  crime 
and  justify  the  vengeance  of  thy  lord!*' 

"As  I  believe  thee,  my  Coelius  —  as   1  believe  that  thou  hai 
most  rashly  and  unjustly  murdered   my  brother,  and   put  dcat) 
in  the   cup  which,  delivered   by  thy  hands,  was  sweet  and   pre 
cious  to  my  lips,  so  must  I   now  declare,  in   sight  of  Heaven,  ii. 
the  presence  of  the  awful  dead,  that  what  I  have  said  and  sworn 
to  thee  is  truth.      He  whom  I  sheltered  within  the  tombs  of  thy 
fathers,  was  the  son  of  mine  —  the  only,  the  last,  I  test  brother  of 
inv  heart.    I  bore  him  in  mine  arms  when  I  was  a  child  myself. 
I  loved  him  ever  !    Oh,  how  I  loved  him  !  next  to  thee,  my  COP 
lius  — next  to  thee!      Couldst  thou  but  have  spared   me  this 
love  —  this  brother  !" 

"How  knew  I  —  how  know  I  now — that  he  was  thy  brother?" 
was  the  choking  inquiry. 

"To  save  rhre  (lie  cruel  agony  that  thou  must  feel,  at  knowing 
this,  1  could  even  be  moved  to  tell  thee  falsely,  and  say  that  he 
was  not  my  brother;    but.  indeed,  some   paramour,  such   as  the 
and    evil    thought  of  thy  brother  has  grafted  upon  thine; 
but  I  may  not  ;  thy  love  is  too  precious  to  me  at  this  last  moment 
:  if  death  \sere    not    too  terrible    to    tin-  faKe    speaker.      II- 
indeed,  mv  Flavins,  dear  >on  of  a  dear  mother,  best  beloved 
•  •f  brothers;  he  whom  thou  did>t  play  with  as  a  boy;  to  whom  thou 
gtt*fM    IfeMCMM    in    thy  o\\n    lovely  art  ;    who  loved  thee,  mv  Co?- 
litlS,  but  too  fondly,  and  only  forbore  telling  thee  of  his  evil  plight 
for  fear  that  tli"U  shouldst  incur  danger  from   the   ^liarp  and  an 
gry  hostility  of  Rome.      Seek   my  chamber,  and   in   my  cabinet 
thou  wilt    find    hi.s    letters,  an. I    the    1  my  mother,  borne 

wifh  him  in  his  Hight.    Nay,  —  oh  !  mother,  what  i 

"Too  late!   t'*o  late  :      If  it  be   truth    th • -i   speaker,   Aurelm, 

11 


242  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

it  is  a  truth  that  can  not  save.  Death  is  upon  us  —  I  Bee  it  in 
thy  face  —  I  feel  it  in  my  heart  Oh  !  would  that  I  could  ilouht 
thy  story  !" 

"Doubt  not  —  doubt  not — believe  and  take  me  to  thy  heaii. 
I  fear  not  death  if  thou  wilt  believe  me.  My  Coelius,  let  me 
come  to  thee  and  die  upon  thy  bosom." 

"Ah!  shouldst  thou  betray  me  —  shouldst  thou  still  practise 
upon  me  with  thy  woman  art!" 

"And  wherefore?  It  is  death,  thou  say'st,  that  is  upon  us 
now.  What  shall  I  gain,  in  this  hour,  by  speaking  to  thee  false 
ly?  Thou  hast  done  thy  worst.  Thou  hast  doomed  me  to 
death,  and  to  the  scornful  eyes  of  the  confiding  future !" 

She  threw  her  arms  around  him  as  she  spoke,  and  sunk,  sunk 
sobbing  upon  his  breast. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  "that  dreadful  picture!  I  feel,  my 
Aurelia,  that  thou  hast  spoken  truly  —  that  I  have  been  rash 
and  cruel  in  my  judgment.  Thy  brother  lies  before  thee,  and 
yonder  tomb  is  prepared  for  thee.  I  did  not  yield  without  a 
struggle,  and  I  prepared  me  for  a  terrible  sacrifice.  Upon  this 
bier,  habited  as  I  am,  I  yield  myself  to  death.  There  is  no 
help  —  no  succor.  Yet  that  picture  !  Shall  the  falsehood  over 
come  the  truth.  Shall  that  lie  survive,  thy  virtues,  thy  beauty, 
i.-.'l  thy  life!  No!  my  Aurelia,  this  crime  shall  be  spared  at 
least." 

He  unwound  her  arms  from  about  his  neck,  and  strove  to  rise. 
She  sunk  in  the  same  moment  at  his  feet.  "  Oh,  death  !"  she 
cried,  "  thou  art,  indeed,  a  god !  I  feel  thee,  terrible  in  thy 
strength,  with  an  agony  never  felt  before.  Leave  me  not,  my 
Coalius  — forgive  —  and  leave  me  n«»t  !" 

"  I  lose  thee,  Aurelia  !     Where  —  " 

"  Here  !  before  the  couch  —  I  faint  —  ah  !" 

"  I  would  destroy,"  he  cried,  "  but  can  not !  This  blindness. 
Ho!  without  there!  Aruns !  It  is  thy  step  I  hear!  Undo, 
undo  —  I  iortrive  thee  all,  if  thou  wilt  l>ut  help.  Here  —  hither!" 

The  acute  senses  of  the  dying  man  had,  indeed,  heard  foot 
steps  without.  They  were  tlmse  of  the  perfidious  brother.  But, 
at  the  call  from  within,  lie  retreated  hastily.  There  was  no  an 
swer —  there  was  no  help.  But  there  was  st  ill  some  consciousness 
Death  was  not  }  et  triumphant.  There  was  a  pang  yet  to  be  felt 


SILENCE  !  248 

—  ami  a  pleasure.  It  was  still  in  tin-  power  of  the  dying  man  to 
lift  to  his  embrace  Ins  innocent  victim.  A  moment's  rot  urn  of  con. 
scioUsne>s  enabled  her  to  feel  his  embrace,  his  warm  tears  upon 
her  cheek,  and  to  hear  his  words  of  entreaty  and  tenderness  im 
ploring  forgiveness.  And  speech  was  vouchsafed  her  to  ac 
cord  it. 

"  I  forgive  thee,  my  On-lius — I  forgive  thee,  and  bless  thee, 
and  love  thee  to  the  last.  1  know  that  thou  wouldst  never  do 
UK-  hurt  nf  thy  own  will  ;  1  know  that  thou  wert  deceived  to 
this  —  yet  how,  oh,  how,  when  my  head  lay  upon  thy  breast  at 
night,  and  I  slept  in  peace,  couldst  thou  think  that  I  should  do 

thee  wrong  !" 

"  Why."  murmured  the  miserable  man,  "  why,  oh,  why  ?" 

"  llad  I  but  told  thee,  and  trusted  in  thee,  my  Coslius !" 

1  Why  didst  thou  not?" 

"  It  was  because  of  my  brother's  persuasion  that  I  did  not  — 
he  wished  not  that  thou  shouldst  come  to  evil." 

"  And  thou  forgiy'st  me,  Aurelia  —  from  thy  very  heart  thou 
forgiv'st  me  ?" 

••  All,  all  —  from  my  heart  and  soul,  my  husband." 

44  It  will  not,  then,  be  so  very  hard  to  die !" 

An  hour  after  and  the  chamber  was  silent.  The  wife,  bad 
yielded  tir<t.  She  breathed  her  last  sigh  upon  his  bosom,  and 
with  the  la.st  eflbrt  of  his  strength  he  lifted  her  gently  and  laid 
her  in  the  sarcophagus,  composing  with  afiecf innate  care  the  dra 
pery  around  her.  Then,  remembering  the  picture,  he  looked 
around  him  for  his  sword  with  which  to  obliterate  the  portr*i*s 
which  his  genius  had  assigned  to  M>  lamentable  an  eternity  •  but 
his  efforts  were  feeble,  and  the  paralysis  of  death  seized  him 
while  he  was  yet  making  them.  He  sunk  hack  with  palsied 
limbs  upon  the  bier,  and  the  lights,  and  the  picture,  faded  from 
hot'. -re  his  eyes,  with  the  last  pulses  of  his  life.  The  calumnv 
which  had  destroyed  his  hopes,  survived  its  own  detection.  The 
recorded  falsehood  was  triumphant  over  the  truth;  yet  may  you 
see,  to  tlii-,  dav,  where  the  random  strokes  of  the  weapon  were 
aimed  for  its  obliteration.  Of  himself  there  is  no  monument  in 
the  t«»mb,  though  one  t'lui-hing  memorial  has  reached  us.  The 
vaulted  chamber  buried  in  the  earth  w?us  discovered  by  accident 
A  fracture  was  made  in  its  top  hy  an  Italian  gentleman  in  com 


244  SOUTHWARD    110  ! 

pany  with  a  Scottish  nobleman.  As  they  gazed  eagerly  through 
the  aperture,  they  beheld  an  ancient  warrior  in  full  armor,  and 
bearing  a  coronet  of  gold.  The  vision  lasted  but  a  moment. 
The  decomposing  effects  of  the  air  were  soon  perceptible.  Even 
while  they  gazed,  the  body  seemed  agitated  with  a  trembling, 
heaving  motion,  which  lasted  a  few  minutes,  and  then  it  subsi 
ded  into  dust.  When  they  penetrated  the  sepulchre,  they  found 
the  decaying  armor  in  fragments,  the  sword  and  the  helmet,  or 
crown  of  gold.  The  dust  was  but  a  handful,  and  this  was  all 
that  remained  of  the  wretched  Lucuino.  The.  terrible  picture  is 
all  that  survives  —  the  false  witness,  still  repeating  its  cruel  lie, 
at  the  expense  of  all  that  is  noble  in  youth  and  manhood,  and 
all  that  is  pure  and  lovely  in  the  soul  of  woman  " 

We  all  agreed  that  our  professor,  who  delivered  his  narrative 
with  due  modesty,  had  made  a  very  interesting  legend  from  the 
chronicles  —  had  certainly  shown  a  due  regard  for  the  purity  of 
the  sex,  in  thus  vindicating  the  virtuous  sufferer  from  the  mali 
cious  accusation  which  had  been  preserved  by  art,  through  the 
capricious  progress  of  more  than  twenty  centuries. 

Several  stories  followed,  short,  sketchy,  and  more  or  less  spir 
ited,  of  which  I  could  procure  no  copies.  The  ladies  gave  us 
sundry  pleasant  lyrics  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  guitar,  and 
one  or  two  male  Bute  players  contributed  to  our  musical  joya 
until  we  began  to  verge  toward  the  shorter  hours,  when  the  fair 
er  portion  of  the  party  bowed  us  good  night  —  Duyckinan  nearly 
breaking  his  own  and  Selina  Burroughs's  neck,  in  helping  her 
down  the  cabm-Hteps 


CHAPTER    XIII 

"THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH"  AT  SEA. 

~BT  us  skip  over  the  small  hours  which  were  consumed  by 
oar  little  community — we  mav  suppose  —  after  a  very  common 
lashion  on  shore.  There  was  silence  in  the  ship  for  a  space. 
But  a  good  strong  corps  was  ready,  at  the  peep  of  day,  to 
respond,  with  a  general  shout,  to  that  salutation  to  the  morn 
ivhk-h  our  worthy  captain  had  as>igned  to  the  throats  of  his  pet 
Sra-s  pieces.  We  were  not  missing  at  the  moment  of  uproar, 
and,  as  the  bellowing  voices  roared  along  the  deep,  we  echoed 
the  clamor  with  a  hurrah  scarcely  less  audible  in  the  courts  of 
Neptune. 

I  need  not  dwell  upon  the  exhibition  of  deshabilles,  as  we  ser 
*>rally  appeared  on  deck  in  nightgown  and  wrapper,  with  other 
wise  scant  costume.  But,  as  our  few  la  ly -passengers  made  no 
•ipjKMiraiice  at  this  hour,  there  was  no  need  for  much  precaution. 
We  took  the  oppoitunitv  atVonled  hy  their  absence  to  procure 
a  good  sousing  from  the  sea.  administered,  through  capacious 
buckets,  l.y  the  hands  of  a  courteous  coalheaver,  who  received 
hifi  shilling  a-head  tor  our  ablutions.  By  the  way.  why  should 
not  these  admirable  veitilt)  >••  distinguished  by  their  variou* 
comforis,  be  provided  with  half-a-do/en  bathing  rooms  I  We 
commend  the  suggestion  to  future  builders.  A  bath  is  even 
more  necessai  \  than  mi  shore,  and,  lacking  his  bath,  there 

is  many  a   pretty  fellow  who    resorts   to   his   bottl  ,ueut 

ablution  is  no  small  agent  of  a  proper  morality. 

Outraging  no  propriety  by  our  garden-like  innocence  of  cos 
tume,  we  began  the  day  merrily,  and  contrived  to  continue  it 
cheerily.  At  the  hour  of  twelve,  the  awning  spread  above  us, 
a  smooth  soa  below,  a  tine  bive/e  »t  reaming  around  us,  we  were 
all  assembled  upon  the  (juarter -deck,  a  small  but  select  congre 
gation,  to  hear  the  man  in  a  safi'ron  skin  and  green  spectacles. 


246  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

We  dispensed  with  the  whole  reading  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence ;  our  reader  graciously  abridging  it  to  doggrel 
dimensions,  after  some  such  form  as  the  following,  which  he 
delivered,  as  far  as  permitted,  with  admirable  grace  and  most 
senatorial  dignity :  — 

"  When  in  the  course  of  human  events, 
A  people  have  cravings  for  eloquence. 
A  decent  regard  for  common-sense 
Requires " 

He  was  here  broken  in  upon  by  a  sharp  shriek,  rather  than  a 
voice,  which  we  found  to  proceed  from  a  Texan,  who  had  worn 
hi?  Mexican  blanket  during  the  whole  voyage,  and  whom  some 
of  the  passengers  were  inclined  to  think  was  no  other  tban 
Sam  Houston  himself.  His  interruption  furnished  a  sufficiently 
appropriate  finishing  line  to  the  doggrel  of  our  reader:  — 

"  Oh,  go  ahead,  and  d — n  the  expense." 

"  The  very  principle  of  the  Revolution,'  said  the  orator. 

"  Particularly  as  they  never  redeemed  the  continental  money. 
My  grandmother  has  papered  her  kitchen  with  the  '  I.  O.  U'8 
of  our  fathers  of  Independence." 

This  remark  led  to  others,  and  there  was  a  general  buz/,, 
when  the  orator  put  in,  first  calling  attention,  and  silencing  all 
voices,  by  a  thundering  slap  with  the  flat  of  his  hand  upon  the 
cover  of  a  huge  volume  which  he  carried  in  his  grasp. 

"  Look  you,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  with  the  air  of  a  person  who 
was  not  disposed  to  submit  to  wrong — "you  asked  me  to  be 
your  orator,  and  hang  me  if  I  am  to  be  choused  out  of  the  per 
formance,  now  that  I  have  gone  through  all  my  preparations. 
Scarcely  had  I  received  your  appointment  before  I  proceeded 
to  put  myself  in  training.  I  went  below  and  got  myself  a  dose 
of  'snake  and  tiger'  —  a  beverage  I  had  not  tasted  before  for 
;he  last  five  months  —  and  I  commended  myself,  during  a 
..wenty  minutes'  immersion  in  the  boatswain's  bath  at  the  fore  — 
while  you  were  all  sleeping,  I  suppose  —  to  the  profound  and 
philosophical  thoughts  which  were  proper  to  this  great  occasion 
With  the  dawn,  and  before  the  cannon  gave  counsel  to  the  da. 
I  was  again  immersed  in  meditation  and  salt-water;  followed  !>} 
a  severe  friction  at  the  hands  of  one  of  the  stewards,  and  another 
touch  of  'snske  -v^d  tiger'  at  the  hands  of  the  butler.  I  have 


THK    ORATION.  "241 

thus  prepared  myself  for  the  occasion,  and  I'll  let  you  know  I 
ain  not  the  man  to  prepare  myself  for  nothing.  Either  you 
must  hear  me,  or  y<>u  must  light  me.  Let  me  know  your  reso 
lution.  If  I  do  not  begin  upon  you  all,  I  shall  certainly  begin 
upon  some  one  of  you.  and  1  <l<>n't  know  but  that  Texan  shall 
he  my  first  cu-t  uner,  a«  being  the  first  to  disturb  the  business 
of  the  day.  An  audible  snort  from  the  blanket  was  the  only 
answer  from  that  uiiarter;  while  the  cry  of  —  -"An  orator 
an  orator!"  from  all  parts  of  the  ship,  pacified  our  belligerent 
Demosthenes. 

He  began  accordingly. 

THB    ORATION    OF    THE    GRKKVSPK.f  "T  Ai  l.KK    ALABAMIA.N 


"  Shipmatf*  or  Fellou--(  'itizrnx  :  We  are  told  liy  good  author 
ity  that  no  man  is  to  be  pronounced  fortunate  K>  long  as  h« 
lives,  since  every  moment  of  life  is  subject  to  caprices  which 
may  reverse  his  condition,  and  render  y.-ur  congratulation/ 
fraudulent  and  offensive.  The  same  rules,  for  the  same  reason. 
should  be  adopted  in  regard  to  nations,  and  no  eulogy  should 
he  spoken  upon  their  institutions,  until  they  have  ceased  t, 
exist.  It  would  accordingly  be  much  easier  for  me  to  dilate 
upon  the  good  fortune  of  Copan  and  Palencjue  than  upon  any 
other  countries,  since  they  will  never  i  i"re  suffer  from  invasion. 
and  the  scandalous  chronicle  of  their  private  lives  is  totally  lost 
to  a  prying  posterity. 

"  In  regard  to  our  country,  what  would  you  have  me  say  t  Am 
I  summoned  to  the  tribune  fc>  deal  in  the  miserable  follies  and 
falsehoods  which  now  pervade  the  land  ?  At  this  moment,  from 
evew  city,  and  state,  and  village,  and  town  and  hamlet  in  the 
I'liion.  ascends  one  common  voice  of  self-delusion  and  deception 
You  hear,  on  all  hands,  a  general  congratulation  of  fchttftMlTQI 
and  one  another,  about  our  peace,  and  pr.np'-rity  Mid  harmony 
About  our  prosperity  a  great  deal  may  be  said  Lout-Lily.  if  n-> 
about  its  honeM  v.  Never  did  a  people  so  easily  and  excellent1;. 
clothe  and  feed  themselves.  (  )nr  ancestors  were  very  pooi 
devils,  compared  to  our>el\e>,  in  respect  to  their  acquisitions 
Their  very  best  luxuries  are  not  now  to  be  enumerated,  excep. 
our  mear»st  and  commonest  possessions;  and,  without 


248  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

being  bettor  men,  our  humblest  citizens  enjoy  a  domestic  con 
dition  which  would  have  made  the  mouths  to  water,  with  equal 
delight  and  envy,  of  the  proudest  barons  of  the  nays  of  Queen 
Bess  and  Harry  the  Eighth.  What  would  either  of  these 
princes  have  given  to  enjoy  ices  such  as  Captain  Berry  gave  us 
yesterday,  and  the  more  various  luxuries  which  (I  see  it  in  his 
face)  he  proposes  to  give  us  to-day  !  What  would  the  best 
potentates,  peers  and  princes  of  Europe,  even  at  this  day,  give 
to  be  always  sure  of  such  oysters  as  expose  themselves,  with  all 
their  wealth  of  fat,  buried  to  the  chin,  about  the  entrances  of 
our  harbors,  from  Sandy  Hook  to  Savannah,  in  preference  to 
the  contracted  fibres  and  coppery-flavored  substitutes  which 
they  are  forced  to  swallow,  instead  of  the  same  admirable  and 
benevolent  ocean  vegetable,  as  we  commonly  enjoy  it  here. 
And  what  —  0  Americans!  —  can  they  offer  in  exchange  for 
the  pear,  the  peach,  the  apple  and  the  melon,  such  as  I  already 
taste,  in  anticipation  of  events  which  shall  take  place  in  this 
very  vessel  some  two  hours  hence  ?  It  is  enough,  without  enu 
merating  more  of  our  possessions  —  possessions  in  the  common 
enjoyment  of  our  people  —  that  I  insist  on  the  national  prosperity. 

"  But  this  is  our  misfortune.  We  are  too  prosperous.  We  are 
like  Jeshuran,  of  whom  we  read  in  the  blessed  volume,  who, 
waxing  too  fat,  finally  kicked.  Fatal  kicking  !  Foolish  Jeshu 
ran  !  In  our  fatness  —  in  our  excess  of  good  fortune  —  we  are 
kicking  ungraciously,  like  him  ;  and  we  shall  most  likely,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  ungracious  cow  of  which  the  Book  of  Fables 
tells  us.  kick  over  the  bucket  after  we  have  fairly  filled  it. 

"  We  admit  the  prosperity  :  but  where's  the  peace  ?  It  is  in 
the  very  midst  of  this  prosperity  that  we  hear  terrible  cries  from 
portions  of  our  country,  where  they  have  not  yet  well  succeeded 
in  casting  off  the  skins  of  their  original  savage  condition.  There's 
Bully  Benton,  and  Big-Bone  Allen,  and  Humbug  Houston,  and 
hittle  Lion  Douglass,  and  Snaky-Stealing  Seward,  and  Copper- 
Captain  Case,  and  a  doisen  others,  of  bigger  breeches  than 
brains,  and  mightier  maws  than  muscles  —  hear  how  they  sev 
erally  roar  and  squeak  !*  One  would  cut  the  carotid  of  corpu- 


Of  course  we  arc  not  rMpdMtMe  for  the  complimentary  rstimutcs 
made  of  our  m«>n  of  trunk,  l>y  our  A!;il>;mm   orator.      W«-   are  aimjily  acting   ai 
•eportern,  and  tnkin^  down  his  Inngtiago,  verbatim  tt  litrratim. 


ROOBYDOM    AND    ITS   OKA'  1  .K>.  249 

lent   Jolm  Bull  ;   another  would    swallow  the   mines  of  Mexico  ; 
a  third  would  foul  tin-  South,  a   fourth  the  \<>rth  ;    and  they  are 

all    for    kicking   up  a    pretty  d d    fuss   generally,  expecting 

the  people  t"  foot  the  hill. 

"And  now,  with  such  an  infernal  hnhhub  in  our  cars,  on  every 
side,  from  these  bomb-bladders,  should  thore  ho  peace  among 
US?  We  orv  'peace'  when  there  is  no  peace!  Their  cry  is 
'war,  even  in  the  midst  of  prosperity,  and  when  short-cotton  is 
thirteen  cents  a  pound  !  And  war  for  what  ?  As  if  wo  had  not 
-jierity  enough,  and  a  great  deal  too  much,  shipmates,  since 
we  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  it,  and  employ  such  blather 
skites  as  these  to  take  it  into  their  ridiculous  keeping.  In  It 
many  words.  shipmate>.  these  Hearts  of  Habyhm.  representing 
us  poor  boobies  of  America,  are  each  of  them,  professedly  on  our 
part,  playing  the  part  of  Jeshuran  the  Fat  !  They  are  kicking 
lustily,  and  will,  I  trust,  be  kicked  over  in  the  end,  and  before 
the  end,  and  kicked  out  of  sight,  by  that  always-avenging  des 
tiny,  which  interposes,  at  the  right  moment,  to  settle  accounts 
with  blockhead  statesmen  and  blockhead  nations. 

"Now,  how  are  we  to  escape  our  own  share  of  this  judgment 
of  Jeshuran  ?  Who  shall  say  how  long  it  will  be  before  we  set 
our  heels  against  the  bucket,  and  see  the  green  fields  of  our 
liberties  watered  with  the  waste  of  our  prosp.'iities  !  -I'm  not 
sure  of  the  legitimacy  of  this  figure,  but  can't  stop  n,,w  to  ana- 
iv/.e  it.  We'll  discuss  it  hereafter  before  the  Literary  Club  of 
Charleston,  which  is  said  to  be  equally  famous  for  its  facts  and 
figures.)  Hut,  so  long  as  it  is  doubtful  if  we  shall  escape  this 

disast,  r •    long   as    the    future    is    still    ///    nuhiln,i.  and   these 

cloud-  m  M  full  of  growl  and    blackness  •—  u  •  .i-onahly 

doubt  if  our  prosperity  is   either    secure   <»r    perfect.      (Yrtainly. 
it  is  not  yet  time  either  for  its  history  or  eulogy. 

"But  for  our  peace,  our  harmony,  if  not  our  prosperity  I 

11  Believing    ourselves    prosperous,    as    \M-    all    do   and    loudly 
MMVerate,  and    there   should    be  no   good    reason  why  han: 
should  not  be  ours.     Hut  this  harmony  is  of  difficult  acquisition, 
and  we  must  first  ask.  my  hrethien.  what  is  harmony  \ 

"When  we    sit    down    to   dinner  to  dav,  it    is  in  the  confident 
expectation  that  harmony  will  preside  over  the  banquet.      Ti 
,8  no  erood   reason  why  it  should   be  otherwise.     There  will  be 


250  SOUTHWARD    110  ! 

ample  ai  the  feast  for  all  the  parties.  Each  will  get  enough, 
and  probably  of  the  very  commodity  he  desires.  If  he  does 
not,  it  is  only  because  there  is  not  quite  enough  for  all,  and  the 
dish  happens  to  be  nearer  me  than  him  !  Nevertheless,  we 
take  for  granted  that  harmony  will  furnish  the  atmosphere  of 
the  feast  to-day.  It  wiLl  render  grateful  the  various  dishes  of 
which  we  partake.  It  will  assist  us  in  their  digestion.  We 
will  eat  and  drink  in  good  humor,  and  rise  in  good  spirits. 
Each  one  will  entertain  and  express  his  proper  sentiments,  and, 
as  our  mutual  comfort  will  depend  upon  a  gentlemanly  conduct, 
so  no  one  will  say  or  do  anything  to  make  his  neighbor  feel 
uncomfortable.  If  you  know  that  the  person  next  to  you  has 
a  corn  upon  his  toe,  you  will  not  tread  on  it  in  order  to  compel 
his  attention  to  your  wants ;  and,  should  you  see  another  about 
to  swallow  a  moderate  mouthful  of  cauliflower,  it  will  not .  be 
your  care  to  whisper  a  doubt  if  the  disquiet  of  the  person  in  the 
adjoining  cabin  was  not  clearly  the  result  of  cabbage  and  chol 
era.  This  forbearance  is  the  secret  of  harmony,  and  I  trust  we 
shall  this  day  enjoy  it  as  the  best  salad  to  our  banquet. 

"  And  now,  how  much  of  this  harmony  is  possessed  among 
our  people  in  the  states?  Are  you  satisfied  that  there  is  any 
such  feeling  prevailing  in  the  nation,  when,  in  all  its  states,  it 
mbles  in  celebration  of  this  common  anniversary  ?  Hearken 
to  the  commentary.  Do  you  hear  that  mighty  Jtdlabaloo  in  the 
Ka-t  i  It  omies  from  Massachusetts  Hay.  It  is  just  such  an 
uproar  as  we  have  heard  from  that  <{ii:irter  for  a  hundred  years. 
First,  it  fell  upon  the  ears  of  the  people  of-  Mohegan,  and  Nar- 
,-tganset,  and  Coneaughtehoke — the  brecchless  Indians  —  and 
it  meant  massacre.  The  Indians  perished  by  sword-cut  and 
arquebus-shot  and  traffic  —  scalps  being  bought  at  five  shillings 
P»T  head,  till  the  commodity  grew  too  scarce  for  even  cupidity 
to  make  capital  with.  Very  brief,  however,  was  the  interval 
that  followed.  Our  Yankee  brethren  are  not  the  people  to 
suffer  their  neighbors  to  be  long  at  peace,  or  to  be  themselves 
pacific.  Very  soon,  and  there,  was  another  fifllalmJou  !  The 
victims  this  time  were  the  Quakers  ;  and  thev  had  to  fly  from  a 
region  of  so  much  prosperity.  usin<r  their  best  legs,  in  order  to 
keep  their  simple  scalps  secure  under  their  broad  brims.  What 
was  to  be  done  to  find  food  for  the  devouring  appetite  of  these 


HKl. 1. .\I5.M.M.M.NV,.  251 

rabid  wretches,  who  so  well  discriminated  always  as  to  sc« -k 
their  victims-  in  the  feeble,  and  rarely  suftered  their  virtues  to 
peril  tlieir  own  skin-.  They  turned  next,  full-mouthed,  upon 
the  old  women,  an  -nally  npoji  the  yung.  At  the  new 

htllalml<«i  of  \\\\>.    thesp    j>.»or  devils —  and,   unluckily, 

the  devils  whom  they  were  alleged  to  serve  were  too  poor  to 
bring  them  any  succor  -  were  voted  to  he  witches;  they  were 
cut  off  hy  cord  and  fire,  until  the  land  was  purged  of  all  hut  its 
privileged  sinners. 

"  Short  again  was  the  rest  which  these  godly  savages  gave 
themseKe-  or  their  neighbors.  The  poor  Gothamites  next  fell 
beneath  the  han,  and  the  simple  Dutchmen  "f  Manhattan  wore 
fain  to  succumb  under  the  just  wrath  of  the  (io<l-appointed  race 
And  now,  all  the  neighboring  peoples  bring  pruperlv  suhjected, 
the  hellaftalfto  was  raised  against  the  cavaliers  who  dwelt  south 
of  the  Potomac. 

"  These  were    ancient  enemies  of  the  saints   in    the  mother- 
country.      But  there  had   lieen  reasons  hitherto  for  leaving  them 
undisturhed.      They  had  heen  good  customers.     They  had  heen 
the    receivers  of  the  stolen    go,,ds    l»rou<rht   them   hy  these    \ 
men  of  the  East,  and   did   not   then  know  that  the  seller  could 
give  no  good  title  to  the  property  he  s.dd.      As  hm«r  a<  our  cav 
alier  contiiiued  to  huy  the  African,  the   saints  liinted  nut  a  word 
about    the    im perfecting    «if   tht^    title.      It    was    only   when    he 
refused   to  huy  any  more  of  the  commodity  that  he  was  told  it 
was  stolen. 

"  And   now  the   hellahaloo  is  raised  against  all  those  having 
the  stolen  ;_r«<>ds  in    possession.      Dues  this   hi-llnlmliM  sound  like 
harmony,  my  brethren?   and  don't    v>u   think   there  will    h. 
answering   liellahahm   tu   this,  which  will    tend    still    niun-  to  dis- 
ttirh  tin-   harmonies?     And,  with   these  wild  clamors  in  <m: 
rucking  the  nation  from  side  to  side,  who  is  it  that  cries  'peace! 
p«-a« •••  '    ]••  •!•  -e  !'    when    there   is   n<.    p.  Am    I   to   be   ma'Ir 

the  ecboof  ;i  t'alsehoud  ?  Shall  my  lips  rej»eat  the  silly  com 
monplace  which  cheats  n.,h.>dy.  and  [  nohudy,  and 
makes  n.ibiidy  repent  \  N.I.  my  brethren!  l.rt  n*  .-<i'eak  tlie 
truth.  There  is  n,.  ;  harnmny.  no  uni....  .-,: 
A  j.  :•'..  .ne  already  ^undrred.  Wr  n<.w  hate  and  strive 
Agnii»st  each  other;  and,  »:ntil  w  c"ine  hack  to  justice  to  the 


SOUTHWARD    HO! 

recognition  of  all  those  first  principles  which  led  our  ancestors 
into  a  league,  offensive  and  defensive,  for  a  common  object  and 
with  a  common  necessity, — the  breach  will  widen  and  widen, 
until  a  great  gulf  shall  spread  between  us,  above  which  Death 
will  hang  ever  with  his  black  banner :  and  across  which  terror, 
and  strife,  and  vengeance,  shall  send  their  unremitting  bolts  of 
storm  and  fire !  Let  us  pray,  my  brethren,  that,  in  regard  to 
our  harmony,  we  arrest  our  prosperity,  lest  we  grow  too  fat,  and 
kick  like  Jeshuran  !" 

Here  a  pause.  Our  orator  was  covered  with  perspiration. 
He  hemmed  thrice  with  emphasis.  He  had  reached  a  climax. 
The  Texan  was  sleeping  audibly,  giving  forth  sounds  like  an 
old  alligator  at  the  opening  of  the  spring.  Our  few  Yankee 
voyagers  had  arisen  some  time  before,  not  liking  the  atmosphere, 
and  were  now  to  be  seen  with  the  telescope,  looking  out  into 
the  East  for  dry  land.  The  orator  himself  seemed  satisfied 
with  the  prospect.  He  saw  that  his  audience  were  in  the  right 
mood  to  be  awakened.  He  wiped  his  face  accordingly,  put  on 
his  green  spectacles,  and  in  a  theatrical  aside  to  the  steward  — 

"  Hem  !  steward  !  another  touch  of  the  snake  and  tiger." 

I  do  not  know  that  I  need  give  any  more  of  this  curious  ora 
tion,  which  was  continued  to  much  greater  length,  and  discussed 
a  most  amusing  variety  of  subjects,  not  omitting  that  of  Com 
munism,  and  Woman's  Rights.  Know-Nothingism  had  not  then 
become  a  fixed  fact  in  the  political  atmosphere,  or  it  would, 
probably,  have  found  consideration  also. 

Very  mixed  were  the  feelings  with  which  the  performance 
was  greeted.  Our  secessionists  from  South  Carolina  and  other 
states,  of  whom  there  were  several  on  board,  were  quite  satis 
fied  with  our  orator's  view  of  the  case ;  but  our  Yankees,  reap 
pearing  when  it  was  fairly  over,  were  not  in  the  mood  to  suffer 
it  to  escape  without  sharp  censure.  The  orator  was  supposed 
to  have  made  a  very  unfair  UM>  <>t  the  occasion  and  of  his 
•>WM  appointment.  But  the  orator  was  not  a  customer  with 
whom  it  was  politic  to  trifle;  and  as  he  seemed  disposed  to 
show  liis  trrtli,  more  than  once,  the  discussion  was  seasonably 
-ted  by  the  call  to  dinner. 

They  live  well  on  the  steamers  between  New  York  and 
Charleston.  Both  cities  know  something  of  good  living,  and  in 


CHEERING    EFFECTS   OF   WINE.  258 

neither  is  the  taste  for  turtle  likely  to  die  out.  Why  IB  the 
breed  of  aldermen  so  little  honored  in  either  ?  Our  captain  is 
proverbially  a  person  who  can  sympathize  duly  with  the  exigen 
cies  of  appetite,  and  his  experience  in  providing  against  thtm 
has  made  him  an  authority  at  the  table.  Ordinarily  admirable, 
onr  dinner  mi  the  glorious  Fourth  was  worthy  of  the  occasion. 
The  committee  of  arrangements  had  duly  attended  to  their 
duties. 

The  time  at  length  arrived  for  that  interchange  of  mortal  and 
mental  felicities  which  the  literary  stereotypists  describe  UH  the 
feast  i)f  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul ;  and  sentiment  was  to  b»>  in 
dulge'!.  Our  excellent  captain,  sweetness  in  all  his  looks.  h.>m- 
in  his  eye,  in  every  action  dignity  and  grace,  filling  his 
glass,  bowed  to  a  stately  matron,  one  of  our  few  lady-passen 
gers— 

"  The  pleasure  of  a  glass  of  wine  with  you,  madam." 

"Thank  yon,  captain,  hut  I  never  take  wine,"  was  the  reply. 

••  Perfectly  right,  madam,"  put  in  the  orator  of  the  day  ; 
"Though  written  that  wine  cheereth  tin-  heart  of  man  it  is  no 
where  said  that  it  will  have  any  such  effect  on  the  heart  of 
woman." 

There  was  a  little  by-play  after  this,  between  the  orator  and 
the  lady,  the  latter  looking  and  speaking  as  if  half  disposed  now 
to  take  the  wine,  if  i.nly  to  prove  that  its  effects  might  he  M 
cheering  to  the  one  s*ex  as  to  the  other.  Hut  the  captain  rising, 
interrupted  the  episode. 

1:11  your  gla»e-.  gentlemen." 
All  charged,"  cried  the  vice. 

1.  The  <l<u/  >r>-    ,l.hr<it<  ' —  Dear  to  us  only  as  the  memorial 
of  an  alliance  between  nations,  which  was  to  guaranty  protection 
justice,  and  etjual  rights,  to  all. 

The  batteries  being  opened,  the  play  wen^  in  T/ithotit  inter 
ruption  :  1  shall  go  on  with  the  to  itim 

2.  The  Constitution. —  Either  a  bond  for  all.  or  a  bond  fur  none 
Not  surely  Midi  a  web  as  will    bind  fast  the  feeble,  and  through 
which  the  strong  may  break  away  without  restraint. 

3.  The  Union. —  The   perfection  of  harmony,  if.  as  it  wa-  de 
signed  to  be,  in  the  language  of  Shakspeare, —  the   "unity  and 
married  calm  of  States." — 


254  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

4.  The  Slave  States  of  tht  South.— The  conservators  of  the 
peace,  where  faction  never  rears  its  head,  where  mobs  tear  not 
down,  nor  bum,  nor  destroy  the  hopes  and  habitations  of  the 
peaceful  and  the  weak,  and  where  reverence  in  the  people  it 
still  the  guarantee  for  a  gentleman  in  the  politician. 

5.  The  Agriculture  of  the  Smith. —  The  source  of  peace,  hos 
pitality,  and  those  household  virtues,  which  never  find  in  business 
a  plea  against  society. 

6.  Cotton  and  Corn. —  The  grand  pacificators,  which  in  rorer- 
ing  and  lining  the  poor  of  Europe,  bind  their  hands  with  peace, 
and  fill  their  hearts  with  gratitude. 

7.  Washington. —  A  Southron  and  a  slaveholder — pious  with 
out  cant ;   noble  without  arrogance  ;   brave  without  boast ;   and 
generous  without  ostentation  ! — When  the  Free-Soilers  shall  be 
able  to  boast  of  such  a  citizen  and  son,  it  may  be  possible  to  be 
lieve  them  honest  in  their  declarations,  and  unselfish  in  their  ob 
jects —  but  not  till  then. 

8.  The  President  of  the  United  States. —  We  honor  authority 
and   place  ;    but  let  authority  see  that  it  do  honor  to  itself.     Let 
no  man  suppose  that  he  shall  play  the  puppet  in  his  neighbors' 
hands,  and  not  only  escape  the  shame  thereof,  but  win  the  good 
name  of  skilful  play  for  himself.    He  who  would  wield  authority, 
must  show  himself  capable  of  rule ;  and  he  who  has  famously 
borne  the  sword,  must  beware  lest  other  men  should  use  his 
truncheon. 

[Par  Pa  ren  these. —  Brave  old  Zachary  Taylor  was  the  reign 
ing  president  when  this  toast  was  given^ 

9.  Tht-  Xatire  State. — Yours  or  mine,  no  matter.    We  are  all 
linked  indissolubly,  by  a  strange  and  more  than  mortal  tie,  to  a 
special  soil.     To  that  soil  does  the  true  soul  always  hold  itself 
firmly  hound  in  a  fidelity  that   loves  to  toil  in  its  improvement, 
and  will  gladly  die  in  its  defence. 

10.  Woman.  —  Whether  as  the  virgin   she  wins  our  fancies, 
as  the  wife  our  hearts,  as  the  mother  our  loyalty,  still,  in  all,  the 
appointed  angel  to  minister  to  our  (ares,  to  inspirit  our  hopes, 
to  train  our  sensibilities,  and  to  lift  our  sympathies,  to  the  pure, 
the  gentle,  the  delicate,  and  the  true. 

11.  Our  Slaves. —  L ike  <mr  children,  minors  in  the  hands  of 
the  guardian,  to  be  protected  and  trained  to  usefulness  and  virtue 


FLOW    oF    srNTIV  256 

—  to  l>e  taught  .service  ami  nbe.'ienee —  l«-\  e  and  loyalty  —  to 
be  nurturoil  with  a  can-  that  never  >\r.>n^>.  and  governed  by  a 
rule  that  simply  restrains  th.  of  humanity. 

12.   Our  Cn/'ftiin  <un  . '. —  A  good  husband  for  such  a 

wife.— ho  It-is  hey  Mcam  it,  but  keep*  her  in  Mays  ;  — she  may 
boil  up,  but  never  keeps  the  house  in  hot  water  —  and  all  the 
hfllulxtlo-J  linally  ends  in  sinoke.  It'  she  keeps  up  a  racket  be 
low,  he  at  least,  trumpet  in  hand,  walks  the  decks,  and  is  still 
the  master.  May  he  always  keep  her  to  her  bearings,  and  never 
suffer  her  t<>  grow  so  old,  as,  like  some  other  old  woman,  to  be 
come  past  hearing. 

Here,  the  captain,  overcome  with  emotion,  his  face  covered 
with  blush. -v.  r.,>e,  and  after  the  fierce  plaudits  of  the  table  had 
subsided,  replied  in  the  most  eloquent  language  to  the  compli 
ment,  concluding  thus  — 

\nd  while  I  remain  the  master  of  this  goodly  creature,  ge& 
tlemen,  let  me  assure  you,  she  will  never  discredit  her  breeding , 
certainly  never  while  she  continues  to  bear  such  children  as  I 
have  the  honor  to  see  before  me.     Gcnth-men,  I  give  you  — 

"TJtc  Fair—  Equally  precious  as  fair  weather,  fair  play,  and 
lair  women.  While  deriving  from  these  the  best  welfare  of  the 
heart,  mav  we  be  called  upon  to  bid  them  farewell  only  when 
it  is  decreed  that  we  shall  fare  better." 

The  regular  toasts  were  resumed  and  concluded  with  the  thir 
teenth  : — 

13.  The  Orator  of  tin-  Y%  — He  hath  put  the  chisel  to  the 
seam,  the  wedge  to  the  split,  the  hammer  t»  the  head,  the  .-addle 
on  the  horse.  He  has  spoken  well  and  wisely,  and  decently, 
without  the  hrUulalxt  which  usually  marks  a  fourth  of  July 
oiatiou.  Let  him  be  honored  with  the  mark  of  greatness,  and 
if  there  be  a  place  in  senate  and  assembly  which  it  would  not 
discredit  a  wise  man  and  a  gentleman  to  occupy,  send  him 
thither. 

Our  orator  was  again  on  bis  t'« -et.  His  green  spectacles  under 
them  at  the  same  moment  —  and,  such  a  >peech  in  reply:  — 
there  is  no  reporting  it,  but  if  Alabama  does  u«.t  yet  ring  with 
the  voice  of  that  nondescript,  then  hath  she  lost  the  »aste  for 
r*cy  matters. 

It  will  be   seen   that,  thus  far,  the   secessionists  have  pietty 


256  SOUTHWARD    HO  ? 

much  had  the  affair  in  their  own  hands:  and  our  brethren  north 
of  the  Hudson  were  not  in  the  best  of  humors  —  were  somewhat 
r*7«Y/,  indeed,  by  the  character  of  the  oration  and  the  toasts  that 
followed.  They  attempted  to  reply,  in  the  volunteer  toasts 
which  they  offered,  quoting  Daniel  Webster  and  others  very 
freely,  but  without  much  visible  effect.  For  once,  the  majority 
was  against  them.  Our  space  will  not  suffice  to  report  their 
toasts,  the  answers,  or  the  discussions  which  ensued  ;  but  it  is 
doing  them  justice  only  to  give  one  of  the  several  volunteer 
songs  which  were  sung  in  honor  of  the  Union.  The  secession 
ists  had  a  poet  on  board,  but  his  muse  was  suffering  from  sea 
sickness  or  some  other  malady.  She  was  certainly  reluctant 
and  made  no  sign.  The  lay  that  I  give  might  have  issued  from 
the  miitt  of  Joel  Barlow  for  aught  I  know  :  — 

.  M0\    AND    LIBERTY. 

[Sung  by  a  tail  pcrtmi  in  nankin  pantaloon*.] 

Oh,  dear  wus  the  hour  when  Liberty  rose, 

And  gallant  the  freemen  who  came  at  her  c«t , 
Sublime  was  the  vengeance  she  took  on  her  foes, 
And  mighty  the  blow  which  released  her  from  thrall 

Down  from  its  realm  of  blur, 

Proudly  our  Eagle  flew, 
Perched  on  our  banner  and  guided  us  on  ; 

While  from  afar  they  came, 

Brave  aouls  with  noble  aim, 
Where  at  the  price  of  blood,  freedom  was  wooed  and  woa 

Ours  wa«  no  trophy,  the  conquest  of  power, 

Heedless  if  triumph  wore  sanctioned  by  right 
We  took  uot  up  arms  in  infuriate  hom 

Nor  thirsting  for  ppoil  burned  forth  to  the  fight* 

Led  by  the  noblest  C;IUHI\ 

Fighting  for  right*  and  laws, 
Panting  for  freedom  our  fathers  went  forth ; 

Nor  for  themselves  alone, 

Struck  they  the  tyrant  down, 
They  fought  and  they  bled  for  the  nations  of  earth. 

And  dear  be  the  freedom  they  won  for  our  nation, 

\nd  firm  be  the  Union  that  freedom  secures; 
Let  no  parricide  bund  neek  ID  pluck  from  its  station, 
The  flag  tliiiT  sire.-iruH  forth  in  its  pride  from  our  shore*; 
May  no  son  of  our  noil, 
In  inglorious  toil, 


THK    HRIDK    OK   TOE    BATTI.K  2 

A»«nil  ihr  Nripht  i'rnMp?n  tl'ai  floats  on  our  view. 

!.«•:  nut  thai  »tandnril  quail, 

Let  not  those  stii;  M  JTOH   JM!''. 
T:iko  not  one  stm  from  our  bannei  of  bluo. 

Pretty  sharp  were  the  criticisms  of  this  ode  on  the  part  oi 
\f\\r  * 

"It  halts  and  hobbles  like  the  Union  itself,"  was  the  sneei  of 

{'DC. 

"Ill   truth."   said   another,   "it    i>   ominous,  lacking,  here   ano 
there,  some  very  necessary  i 

••  IN   measures,  like   those   of  uovernment  are  admirably  mi- 
eipial." 

hi  shurt,  politic-ally,  poetically,  morally,  and  musically,  the 
W9jt  «icrlar«Ml,  \>y  a  jiuustt-r  present,  to  be  certainly 
within  poetie  rule,  as  it  wap  decidedly  odious.  At  thU  —  un- 
kindest  cut  of  all  —  the  unhappy  singer  —  author,  too,  perhap: 
—  was  suddenly  seized  with  sea-sickm^s,  «'ind  disappeared  OL 
deck.  The  day  was  at  its  close'  «s  we  left  the  table.  We  came 
forth  to  enjoy  a  delicioi»j  sunset,  and  I  was  then  oi?.c"ally  noti 
fied  that  a  story  was  expected  from  me  that  ui^ht.  My  ttiro 
had  come.  The  ladies  were  ^r.^i-rly  pie  i.-t  d  lo  command 
that  I  slmnld  jrivi-  them  a  tale  of  the  R*  volution,  as  appropriate 
to  the  day,  and,  after  a  tine  <i;splay  of  firework;-,  '.ve  composod 
onrselves  in  the  usual  circle,  and  1  delivered  myself  of  the  fol 
lowing  narrative,  which  I  need  not  say  to  those  who  knov  n. 
was  founded  «\i  fact:  — 

THE   BRIDE  (M    T1IK    IUTI  LE. 
A  -JAI.K  OK  Tin:  u.voi.rnoN 

(    MAP  'I  K  K     1  . 

Tn   the,   rt-ader  who.  in  the  •  in  cur  nation^ 

h;-',  try.  MiMl   contine  hiinsel:   only  t«>  those  records  which  are  to 
be  found  in  the   ordinary  n.-mv.-ive.  B  I    he  reads  v/iii  be 

found   obpcr.ro.   and    a    ^r<  .<  untnithl'ul.      Oir 

t.r.ly  hi -•  ->i\r  thriiiM-Kes  \>i.   li'.tle  trouble  '-ing 

after  details.  .iline  N\  as  all   that  they  desired,  and 

lied  uith  thiti.thfy  neither  >on^ht  after  tlie  particular  r\ 
which  slxni-  ,  lative.  ii-r  int..  tlie  Intent  M 


i-EIWAU!)    IIO! 

which  gave  birth  to  many  of  Us  actions.  In  ii:r  hi  i  i  y  of  South 
Carolina,  for  example,  (which  was  one  brimming  with  details  and 
teeming  with  incidents.)  there  h  liitlc  to  be,  found  —  as  the  history 
is  at  present  written  —  which  shall  Afford  to  fhe  reader  even  a 
tolerably  correct  idea  of  the  domestic  character  of  the  struggle. 
We  know  well  enough  that  ;he  people  of  the  colony  were  of  a 
singularly  heterogeneous  character;  that  the  settlers  of  the  lower 
country  were  chiefly  Cavaliers  and  Huguenots,  or  French  Prot- 
-stants,  and  that  the  interior  was  divided  into  groups,  or  settle 
ments,  of  Scotch,  Irish,  and  German.  But  there  is  little  in  the 
record  to  show  that,  of  these,  the  sentiment  was  mixed  and  va 
rious  without  degree;  and  that,  with  the  exception  of  the-  par- 
"{'  the  lower  country,  which  belonged  almost  wholly,  though 
i  slight  modifications,  to  the  English  church,  it  was  scarcely 
poteble  to  find  any  neighborhood,  in  which  there  was  not  some 
thing  like  a  civil  war.  The  interior  and  mountain  settlements 
were  ;ivi:;t  usu.illy  divided,  and  nearly  equally,  between  their  at- 

axhrno.:itfl  to  the  crown  and  the  colony.  A  Scotch  settlement 
Mo.iUJ  make  ?.n  almost  uniform  showing  in  behalf  of  the  English 
authority  —  one,  two,  or  three  persons,  at  the  utmost,  being  of 
the  revouitiouarv  party.  An  Irish  settlement  (wholly  Protest 
ant,  b.-  it  romenfoered)  would  be  as  unanimous  for  the  colonial 
movements  ;  while  the  Germans  were  but  too  frequently  for  the 
monarchical  side,  (hat  being  represented  by  a  prince  of  Hanover. 
The  German  settlements  mostly  lay  in  the  Forks  of  Edisto,  and 
along  the  Congarees.  The  business  of  the  present  narrative 
will  be  confined  chiefly  to  this  people.  They  had  settled  in  ra 
ther  large  families  in  Carolina,  and  this  only  a  short  period  be 
fore  the  Revolution.  They  had  been  sent  out,  in  frequent  in 
stances,  at  the  expense  of  the  crown,  and  this  contributed  to 
secure  their  allegiance.  They  were  ignorant  of  the  nature  of 

!  ••  stri»rgJ.e,  an-!,  being  wholly  agricultural,  could  not  well  be 
i  ..gilt  the  natrre  of  grii'v:ui:cs  which  fell  chiefly  upon  commerce 
A'ld  the  sea-b  -;vnl.  Now,  in  Carolina,  nr.;l  perhaps  throughout 
th-3  whole  south,  the  Revolution  not  only  originated  with  the 
iid'jvee  of  the  c:;  ,  :'  with  the,  educated  portions  of  the 

native-.  It  \\  as  what  may  lie  termed  the  gentlemen  of  the  col 
ony — its  wealth  and  aristocracy — with  whom  ami  which  the 
movement  began;  and  though  it  is  not  our  purpo.s.  here  to  gc 


r,ii;i.   \v.\s  FIIKDI::.  'J.Vj 

into  this  inquiry,  v  '  1  that  the  motives  to  tin-  revolution- 

ary  in  >\  einent  originated  with  them,  in  causes  totally  different 
from  tho.sc  \\hich  stimulated  tin-  patriotism  «.f  the  people  of 
Massachusetts  Bay.  The  pride  of  place,  of  character  and  of 
intellect,  and  not  any  considerations  of  interest,  provoked  the 
agricultural  gentry  of  the  south  into  the  field. 

It  was  the  earnest  desire  of  these  gentry,  at  the  dawning  of 
the  Revolution,  to  conciliate  the  various  people  of  the  interior. 
At  the  I'M  :'  the  struggle,  therefore,  an  attempt  was  made 

to  influence  the  (Jerman  population  along  the  Kdisto  and  Ponga- 
''V  sending   among   them   two    influential    men  of  their  own 
country,  u  ho<«.  fidelity  to  the  //  I  party  was  beyond  dis 

pute.  Hut  these  men  were  unsuccessful.  They  probably  made 
lev,  ("iivr:;-.  It  is  enough,  it'  we  <rive  a  glimpse  at  the  course 
of  their  proceedings  in  a  single  household  in  the  Forks  of  Kdisto.* 
George  Wagner  ami  Felix  Long  arrhed  at  the  habitation  of 
1  ierick  Sabb,  on  the  7th  day  of  July,  1775.  Frederick  was 
an  honest  Dutchman  of  g,M,d  character,  but  not  the  man  im-  rev 
olution.  II,-  was  not  at  home  on  the  arrival  of  the  commissioner-, 
but  his  good  r/v//r,  Minnickcr  Said),  gave  them  a  gracious  recep 
tion.  She  was  a  g..od  housekeeper,  with  but  one  daughter;  a 
tall,  silent  girl,  with  uhoin  the  commissioners  had  no  discourse. 
But  Minnicker  Sabb,  had  .sin-  been  applied  to,  might  have  pro\ed 
a  better  revolutionist  than  her  spou.-e.  It  is  very  certain,  as  the 
results  will  «,how,  that  Fre  b,  the  daughter,  was  of  the 

right    material.      She  was    a    calm,  and    .sweetly -minded    da: 

much  skilled  in  society  .,r  ho..ks  —  for  precious  little  was  the 
i  learning  in  the  >ettlemeiit  at  this  earl\'  jieriod  ;  ht,: 
the  Jiative  mind  was  good  and  solid,  and  her  natural 
unsophisticated,  were  pine  and  elevated.  She  kne\s  .  1  .y  pivcioii.-, 
instincts,  ;t  thousand  things  \\hich  other  minds  s<  ncely  ever 
reach  through  the  l<«st  education.  She  was  what  \\  e  call,  a  good 
girl,  loyal,  with  a  warm  heart,  a  sound  judgment,  ami  a  in- 

.Me    behavior.      \Ve    a:<  .   he    it    reinejnhered,  a 

heioine.  but  a  jmre.  true-hearted  woman.  She  u  as  young  tor  — 
only  seventeen  at  this  period  —  but  just  at  tl,  the 

iili-.|    tiMtn    tin-   lirnnchiiig  nf  thr  iiv«-r  nt  .1  i  ••>i:t:n   :•    i    '  - 
L.-t\v«-.-n    tin-    two    Utm«    !'cn,^    cal'ril     ill.-    Fi»ik«,    ai:il    •r'.tlc-i 
nuum. 


2(>0  -OITIIW.UID  no! 


woman  instincts  arc  most  livoly,  and  her  su-eeptihilities  most 
quick  to  all  that  is  generous  and  noble.  She  made  the  cakes 
,ii:d  prepared  the  supper  for  tlie  guest.H  that  evening,  and  they 
saw  but  little  of  her  till  the  evening  feast  had  been  adjusted,  and 
was  about  to  lie  .iMc'is^e-l.  Hy  this  time  old  Frederick  Sabb  had 
made  his  appearance.  He.  came,  bringing  with  him  three  of  his 
neighbors,  who  were  eager  to  hear  the  news.  They  were  fol 
lowed,  after  a  little  space,  and  in  season  for  supper,  by  another 
guest  —  perhaps  the  most  welcome  of  all  to  the  old  couple — in 
the  person  of  a  favorite  preacher  of  the  methodist  persuasion. 
Elijah  Fields,  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  of  a  vigorous  mind  and 
body,  earnest  and  impetuous,  and  represented,  with  considerable 
efficiency,  in  his  primitive  province,  the  usefulness  of  a  rhurch 
which,  perhaps,  more  than  any  other,  has  modelled  itself  after 
that  of  the  Primitive  Fathers.  We  shall  see  more  of  Elijah 
Fields  hereafter.  In  the  course  of  the  evening,  three  other 
neighbors  made  their  appearance  at  the  farmhouse  of  Frederick 
Sabb ;  making  a  goodly  congregation  upon  which  to  exercise 
the  political  abilities  of  Messrs.  Wagner  and  Long.  They  were 
all  filled  with  a  more  or  less  lively  curiosity  in  regard  to  the 
events  which  were  in  progress,  and  the  objects  which  the  com 
missioners  had  in  view.  Four  of  these  neighbors  were  of  the 
same  good  old  German  stock  with  Frederick  Sabb,  but  two  of 
them  were  natives  of  the  country,  from  the  east  bank  of  the 
north  branch  of  the  Edisto,  who  happened  to  be  on  a  visit  to  an 
adjoining  farmstead.  The  seventh  of  these  was  a  young  Scotch 
man,  from  Cross  Creek,  North  Carolina,  who  had  already  declar 
ed  himself  very  IVeelv  against  the  revolutionary  movement.  He 
liad,  indeed,  gone  so  far  as  to  designate  the  patriots  as  traitors, 
il"M-ryhig  a  short  cord  and  a  sudden  shrift;  and  this  opinion  was 
expressed  with  a  degree  of  temper  which  did  not  leave  it  doubt 
ful  that  he  would  gladly  seek  an  opportunity  to  declare  himself 
offensively  in  the  presence,  of  the  commissioners.  As  we  shall 
sec  more  of  this  person  hereafter,  it  is  only  right  that  we  should 
introduce  him  formally  to  the  reader  as  Matthew  or  Mat  Dunbar. 
He  went  much  more  frequently  by  the  name  of  Mat  than  Mat- 
th>  \v.  We  may  also  mention  that  he  was  not  entirely  a  politi- 
A  fueling  of  a  tender  nature  brought  him  to  the  dwelling 
id  Sal'l'.  upon  whose  daughter,  Frederica,  our  voung  Scotch 


THE    RIVALS.  -"1 

man  to  l'»»k  with  hungry  eyes.      And   public  con 

jecture,  did  not  err  in  its  suspicions. 

Hut  Mat  Diiubar  \\as  ii"t  without  a  rival.  Richard  Coulter 
was  the  only  native  of  the  cnnntry  present,  Parson  Fields  CX- 
cepted.  He  was  a  tall,  manly  youth,  about  the  same  age  with 
I>iinhar.  Hut  he  possessed  many  advantages  over  the  latter, 
particularly  in  respect  to  person.  Tall,  while  Dunbar  was  short, 
with  a  handsome  face,  tine  eye,  and  a  luxuriant  shock  of  hair, 
and  a  nu.  /d  of  the  same  color,  which  gave  quite  a  mar 

tial  appearance  to  his  features,  otherwise  effeminate  —  the  spec 
tator  inevitably  contrasted  him  with  his  rival,  whose  features, 
indeed,  were  fair,  hut  inexj. revive  ;  and  whoe  hair  and  heard 
were  of  the  most  burning  and  unmitigated  red.  Though  stout 
of  limb,  vigorous  and  athletic,  Mat  Dunbar  was  awkward  in  his 
movement,  and  wanting  in  dignity  of  hearing.  Mentally,  the, 
superiority  of  Coulter  was  not  so  manifest.  He  was  ni"ie  difB. 
dent  and  gentle  than  the  other,  who.  experienced  by  travel,  hold 
and  confident,  never  exhibited  himself  at  less  than  his  real  worth. 
These  preliminaries  must  suffice.  It  is  perhaps  scarcely  i. 
sary  to  say  that  Frederica  Sabb  made  ///•/•  comparisons  between 
the  two,  and  very  soon  arrived  at  one  conclusion.  A  girl  of  eom- 
inon  instincts  rarely  fails  to  discover  u  hether  she  is  sought  or 
not;  and  the  same  instincts  leads  her  generally  to  determine  be 
tween  rivals  Lug  in  advance  of  the  moment  when  they  propose. 
Richard  Coulter  was  certainly  her  favorite  —  though  her  prudence 
was  of  that  becoming  kind  which  enabled  her  easily  to  keep  to 
her.-elf  the  secret  of  her  preference. 

Old  Sabb  treated  his  gue>t.--  with  good  1  hitch  hospitality .  H!-, 
wife  and  daughter  were  excellent  housekeepers,  and  the  table 
was  soon  spread  with  go,,«l  things  for  supper.  Hutter.  milk,  and 
Mi-cheesefi,  were  not  wanting;  pones  and  h-.e-enke';  made 
an  ample  showing,  and  a  few  broiled  chickens,  and  a  large  plat 
ter  of  broiled  ham,  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  were  as  m;u  h  a 
matter  of  that  early  day.  in  this  lav.. rite  re^i-ni.  a-  we 

find  them  among  its  g.nul  livers  now.  Of  course,  supper  waa 
allowed  to  be  di-cu^sed  before  the  conimi-nioueis  opem-d  their 
budget.  Then  the  good  / ,  her  place,  knitting  in  hand, 

and  a  huge  ball  of  cotton  in  her  lap,  at  the  door,  while  the  guetts 
emerged  from  the  hall  into  the  pia/.xa.  and  sweet  F.  -v 


2t»2  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 


f.  r,  as  was  her  habit,  proceeded  to  put  away  the  debris  of 
the  feast,  and  to  restore  the  apartment  to  its  former  order.  In 
tills  she  was  undisturbed  by  either  of  her  lovers  ;  th«  custom  of 
the  country  requiring  that  she  should  be  left  to  these  occupa 
tions  without  being  embarrassed  by  any  obtrusive  sentiments,  or 
even  civilities.  But  it  might  be  observed  that  Richard  Coulter 
had  ta"ken  his  seat  in  the  piazza,  at  a  window  looking  into  the 
hall,  while  Mat  Dtinbar  had  placed  himself  nearly  at  the  en 
trance,  and  in  close  neighborhood  with  the  industrious  dame. 
Here  he  divided  himself  between  attentions  to  ho,r,  and  an  occa 
sional  dip  into  the  conversation  on  politics,  which  was  now  fully 
in  progress.  It  is  not  our  purpose  to  pursue  this  conversation. 
The  arguments  of  the  commissioners  can  be  readily  conjectured. 
But  they  were  fruitless  to  persuade  our  worthy  Dutchman  into 
any  change,  or  any  self-committals,  the  issue  of  which  might  en 
danger  present  comforts  and  securities.  He  had  still  the  same 
answer  to  every  argument,  delivered  in  broken  English  which 
we  need  not  imitate. 

"  The  king,  George,  has  been  a  good  king  to  me,  my  friends. 
I  was  poor,  but  I  am  not  poor  now.  I  had  not  a  finger  of  land 
before  I  came  hither.  Now,  I  have  good  grants,  and  many 
acres.  I  am  doing  well.  For  what  should  I  desire  to  do  better? 
The  good  king  will  not  take  away  my  grants  ;  but  if  I  should 
hear  to  you,  I  should  be  rebel,  and  then  he  would  be  angry,  and 
he  might  make  me  poor  again  as  I  never  was  before.  No,  no, 
my  friends  ;  I  will  sign  no  association  that  shall  make  me  lose 
my  lands." 

"You're  right  !"  vociferated  Mat  Dunbar.  "It's  treason,  I 
say,  to  sign  any  association,  and  all  these  rangers  here,  in  arms, 
are  in  open  rebellion,  and  should  be  hung  for  it  ;  and  let  the 
time  come,  and  I'm  one  to  help  in  the  hanging  them  !" 

This  was  only  one  of  many  such  offensive  speeches  which  Dun- 
bar  had  contrived  to  make  during  the  evening.  The  commission 
ers  contented  themselves  with  >//<//•/•/'//#  the  individual,  but  with 
out  answering  him.  But  his  rudely-expressed  opinions  were  not 
pleasing  to  old  Sabh  himself,  and  still  less  so  to  his  worthy  uruu; 
who  withdrew  at  thi>  into  the  hall;  while  the  stern  voice  of 
£li)ah  Fields  descended  in  rebuke  upon  the  offender. 

"And  who  art  tliou,"  said  he,   abruptly,  "to  nit  in  judgment 


31  (il  <>F    HI<  K 

up«  n  thy  brethren  ?  Ami  who  lias  commissioned  thoo  to  lend 
If  to  tho  taking  of  human  life?  Life  N  a  ^-icred  thing, 
:g  man  —  the  most  precious  of  human  ]>O>M.C-JJOI,S,  sir 
depends  on  tho  timo  which  is  allowed  us  whether  we  shall  ever 
be  tit  for  etrruity.  To  one  so  young  as  thyself,  scarcely  yet 
•  •nterod  on  tliy  career  as  a  man,  it  might  he  well  to  remember 
that  modesty  is  the  jewel  of  youth,  and  that  when  so  many  of 
the  great  and  good  of  the  land  have  raised  their  voices  against 
tho  (.j.j.r.-xxi.-Ms  of  the  mother-country,  there  may  be  good  rea 
son  why  \vo,  who  know  but  little,  should  respect  them,  and  listen 
till  we  learn.  If  th«ni  wilt  be  counselled  by  me,  tlion  wilt  hearken 
patiently  to  these  worthy  gentlemen,  that  we  may  know  all  the 
merits  of  their  argument." 

Dunbar  answered  this  rebuke  with  a  few  muttered  sentences, 
which  were  hardly  intelligible,  making  no  concessions  to  the 
preacher  or  the  commissioners,  yet  without  being  positively 
offensive.  Richard  Coulter  was  more  prudent.  He  preserved 
a  profound  silence.  But  he  was  neither  unobservant  nor  indif 
ferent.  As  yet  he  had  taken  no  side  in  the  controversy,  and 
was  totally  uncommitted  among  the  people.  But  he  had  been 
•tier,  and  was  quietly  chewing  the  cud  of  self-reflection. 

r  a  little  while,  leaving  the  venerable  seniors  still  en 
gaged  in  the  discussion  —  for  Wagner  and  Long,  the  commis 
sion!  not  willing  t"  f«-rego  the  hope  of  bringing  over  a 
man  of  Sabh's  influence  —  the  young  men  strolled  out  into  the 
grounds  where  their  horses  had  been  fastened.  It  was  almost 
time  to  ride.  As  they  walked,  the  Scotchman  bioke  out  ab 
ruptly:— 

"  Tlu-e  fellows  ought  to  be  hung,  evi-ry  scoundrel  of  them; 
stirring  up  the  cmintrv  to  insurrection  and  treason  ;  but  a  good 
>M  of  hickori, •-.  h..\s,  might  put  a  stop  to  it  quite  as  well  as 
the  halter!  What  -ay  yi.u  !  They  ride  over  to  old  Carter's 
atti-r  they  leCTf  Daddy  Sahb's,  and  it's  a  lonesome  track!  If 
you  agree,  we'll  stop  'em  at  Friday's  Hats,  and  trice  'em  up  to  a 
swinging  limb.  We're  men  enough  for  it,  and  who's  afraid  ?" 

The  pr.  p"-:t:  >n  Wt  i  with  great  glee  by  all  the  young 

fellows,  with  one  e.\crp!;on.  It  wa<  a  pr.«pi,siti..n  invoking  sport 
rather  than  patriotism.  When  the  more  MgQf  responsea  were 
all  received,  Richard  Coulter  quietly  remarked  :  — 


264  snrrnwAiM)  HO  ! 


"No,  no,  boys;  you  must  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Those  are 
good  men,  and  old  eno',;jrh  to  be  the  fathers  of  any  of  us.  Be 
sides,  they're  strangers,  and  think  they're  doing  right.  Let  'em 
alone." 

"  Well,  if  you  wont,"  said  Dunbar,  "  we  can  do  without  you. 
There,  are  four  of  us,  and  they're  hut  two." 

•'  Yon  mistake,"  replied  Coulter,  still  quietly,  "  they  are  three  !" 

"How!  who?" 

%  Wagner,  Long,  and  Richard  Coulter!" 

1  What,  you  !  Will  you  put  yourself  against  us  ?  You  go 
with  the  rebels,  then  ?" 

"  I  go  with  the  strangers.  I  don't  know  much  about  the  re 
bellion,  but  I  think  there's  good  sense  in  what  they  say.  At  all 
events,  I'll  not  stand  by  and  see  them  hurt,  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  Two  or  three,  boys,"  continued  Dunbar,  "  will  make  no  dif 
ference!" 

This  was  said  with  a  significant  toss  of  the  head  toward  Coul 
ter.  The  instincts  of  these  young  men  were  true.  They  al 
ready  knew  one  another  as  rivals.  This  discovery  may  have 
determined  the  future  course  of  Coulter.  He  did  not  reply  to 
Dunbar;  but,  addressing  his  three  companions,  he  said,  calling 
each  by  his  Christian  name,  "  Yon,  boys,  had  better  not  mix  in 
this  matter  before  it's  necessary.  I  suppose  the  time  will  come, 
when  there  can  he  no  skulking,  But  it's  no  use  to  hurry  into 
trouble.  As  for  four  of  you  managing  three,  that's  not  impossi 
ble  ;  but  I  reckon  there  will  be  a  fight  first.  These  strangers  may 
have  weapons  ;  but  whether  they  have  or  not,  they  look  like 
men  :  and  I  reckon,  you  that  know  me,  know  that  before  my 
back  tastes  of  any  man's  hickory,  my  knife  will  be  likely  to 
taste  his  blood." 

Dunbar  replied  rudely  for  the  rest;  and,  but  that  Coulter 
quietly  withdrew  at  this  moment,  seemingly  unruffled,  and  with 
out  making  any  answer,  there  might  have  been  a  struggle  be 
tween  the  two  rivals  even  then.  But  the  companion-  of  Dunbar 
had  no  such  mood*  or  motives  as  prompted  him.  They  were 
impressed  by  what  Coulter  had  said,  and  were,  perhaps,  (juite  as 
much  under  his  influence  as  under  that  of  Dunbar.  They  ac 
cordingly  turned  a  cold  shoulder  upon  all  his  exhortations,  and 
the  commissioners,  accordingly,  left  the  house  <»f  old  Sabb  in 


,    FOB   i-i:   iMPi.i:." 


safety,  attended  by  young  Coulter.  They  little  knew  }\\< 
in  cM-orting  them  to  tin1  dwelling  <>f  Rnmotfl  Carter,  where  they 
-tt'-t»d  that  night,  and  never  knew  the  danger  tV"in  which  bis 
piompt  and  manly  courage  had  saved  them.  lint  the  ev.-nts 
of  that  night  brought  out  Richard  ('milter  for  the  cause  of  tbe 
patriots;  and  a  low  months  found  him  a  second  lieutenant  in  a 
gmllant  corps  "f  Thompson's  rangeis,  raised  for  the  defrix 
till-  colony.  Hut  the  commissioners  jtarted  from  Frederick  Sabb 
without  making  any  impression  on  his  mind.  He  professed  to 
de*re  to  preserve  a  perfect  neutrality  —  this  being  tbe  sugges 
tion  of  bis  selfishness;  but  bis  heart  really  inclined  him  to  tin- 
support  of  the  "  goot  King  Jorge,"  from  whom  his  grants  of  land 
had  heen  derived. 

"And  \vhat  dost  thou  think,  brother  Fields?"  said  he  to  the 
parson,  after  the  commissioners  had  retired. 

"  Brother  Sabb,"  was  the  answer,  "  I  do  not  see  that  we  need 
any  king  any  more  than  tbe  people  of  Israel,  when  they  called 
upon  Samuel  for  one;  and  if  we  are  to  have  one,  1  do  not  see 
why  we  should  not  choose  one  from  out  our  own  tril 

44  Brother  Fields,  I  hope  thou  dost  not  mean  to  go  with  these 
• 

"  Brother  Sabb,  I  desire  always  to  go  with  my  -  ;vri  people." 

"And  whom  callest  thou  our  own  people?" 

"  Tho-r  \\  h<>  dwell  upon  the  soil  and  imrse  it,  and  make  it 
flourish  ;  who  rear  their  flocks  and  children  up  >:%.  it,  in  the  fear 
of  (1ml.  and  have  no  fear  of  man  in  doing  so." 

"Brother  Fields.  1  fear  thou  thinkst  hardly  of  •  goot  King 
Jorge,'"  said  our  Dutchman,  with  .1  sigh.  "  Minnicker,  my 
rrw.  get  you  de  Piple." 

(    I!  A  I'Ti:  It      II. 

WK  •  v    a    long    interval    of    (jnite    (lire,     j  The 

"itudes  of  tbe    Revolution   had   not  materially  affected   tlie 
tiaOf   of'   tli"    -••\r:.-i!    ptrtiei    to    (.ur   narrative.      1  Curing  this 
period   ti.  tl    of  South   Carolina  had  1  .....  n  uniformlv  - 

J    ;!  e    I*    '     h    from   their  chief 

.  and  had  invariably  chaxt'/ed    the   lovali-N    in    all    their 
tempts  to  make  a  diversion  in  favor  (,f  the  foreign  «'nem\-.      But 


SOUTHWARD    Hi)  ! 

events  wore  changing.  These  performances  had  not  been 
effect  ed  hut  at  great  sacrifice  of  blood  and  treasure,  and  a  for 
midable  British  invasion  found  the  state  no  longer  equal  to  ite 
defence.  Charleston,  the  capital  city,  after  frequent  escapes, 
and  a  stout  and  protracted  defence,  had  succumbed  to  the  be 
siegers,  who  had  now  penetrated  the  interior,  covering  it  with 
their  strongholds,  and  coercing  it  with  their  arms.  For  a  brititf 
interval,  all  opposition  to  their  progress  seemed  to  be  at  an  end 
within  the  state.  She  had  no  force  in  the  field,  stunned  by  re 
peated  blows,  and  waiting,  though  almost  hopeless  of  her  oppor 
tunity.  In  the  meantime,  where  was  Richard  Coulter?  A 
fugitive,  lying  perdu  either  in  the  swamps  of  Edisto  or  Conga- 
ree,  with  few  companions,  all  similarly  reduced  in  fortune,  and 
pursued  with  a  hate  and  fury  the,  most  unscrupulous  and  unre 
lenting,  by  no  less  a  person  than  Matthew  Dunbar,  now  a  captain 
of  loyalists  in  the  service  of  George  the  Third.  The  position  of 
Coulter  was  in  truth  very  pitiable ;  but  he  was  not  without  his 
consolations.  The  interval  which  had  elapsed  since  our  tirst 
meeting  with  him,  had  ripened  his  intimacy  with  Frederica 
Sabh.  His  affections  had  not  been  so  unfortunate  as  his  patri 
otism.  With  the  frank  impulse  of  a  fond  and  feeling  heart,  he 
had  appealed  to  hers,  in  laying  bare  the  secret  of  his  own  ;  and 
he  had  clon'.'  so  successfully.  She,  with  as  frank  a  nature,  freely 
gave  him  her  affections,  while  she  did  not  venture  to  bestow  on 
him  her  hand.  His  situation  was  not  such  as  to  justify  their 
union,  and  her  father  positively  forbade  the  idea  of  such  a  <-o:i- 
nection.  Though  not  active  among  the  loyalists,  lie  was  now 
known  to  approve  of  their  sentiments;  and  while  tr;vin<z  them 
all  the  aid  and  comfort  in  his  power,  without  actually  showing 
himself  in  armor,  he  as  steadily  turned  a  cold  and  unwilling 
front  to  the  patriots,  and  all  those  who  went  against  the 
monarch. 

The  visits  of  Richard  Coulter  to  Frederica  v.'er«>  all  stolen 
ones,  perhaps  not  the  less  sweet  for  being  :;o.  A  slorm  some 
times  brought  him  forth  at  nightfall  from  the  shelter  (if  the  neigh 
boring  swamp,  venturing  abroad  at  a  time  when  loyalty  was  MI}>- 

•d  t-»  keep  it-    ^heller.       j'.uf  these  visits  were  aluays  :ir 
panied  by  considerable  peril.    The  eve  of  Matthew  Dmshar  was 
fieijiieiitlv  drawn  in  the  direction  of  the  fiuritive,  while    his    pa< 


si  \T    DUB  BIT.  267 

sions  wen'  a!  >-r  in  the  de-ire  which  led  him  to  seek  for 

this  particular  victim.  The  contest  was  a  well-known  i^ue  of 
life  and  death.  The  fugitive  patriot  was  predoomed  always  to 
the  halter,  by  those,  who  desired  to  parifv  old  revenues,  or  ac 
quire  neu  l>unhar  did  not  actually  know  that  Coulter 
and  Krederica  Sabb  were  in  the  habit  of  meeting ;  hut  that  they 
had  met,  he  knew,  and  he  had  sworn  their  detection.  He  had 
become  a  declared  suitor  of  that  maiden,  and  tin  ;  old 
Sabb  would  not  sufl'er  him  to  decline  his  attentions  to  his  daugh 
ter,  or  to  declare  against  them.  Ihmhar  had  hecome  notoriously 
nn  unmitigated  ruffian.  His  insolence  di-gusted  the  old  Dutch 
man,  who.  nevertheless,  fi-ared  his  violence  and  influence.  Still, 
lined  by  pood  old  Minnicker  Said),  his  rroic,  the  father  had 
the  firmness  to  tell  l>nnhnr  freely,  that  his  daughters  affections 
Hhonld  remain  unforced  ;  while  the  daughter  herself,  seeing  the 
strait  of  her  parents  was  equally  c  rueful  !•>  avoid  the  final  ne- 
•  repulsing  her  repulsive  suitor.  She  continued,  by  a 
happy  a--ertion  of  maidenly  dignity,  to  keep  him  at  hay,  with 
out  vexing  hi-  Mlf-O8teoin  ;  and  to  receive  him  with  civility,  with 
out  affording  him  ;  •  •neouragement.  Such  was  the  con 
dition  of  things  among  our  several  parties,  when  the  partisan  war 
began:  when  the  favorite  native  leaders  in  the  south — the  first 
panic  of  their  people  having  passed  —  had  rallied  their  little 
squads,  in  swamp  and  thicket,  and  were  making  those  fir-'  de 
monstrations  which  began  to  disquiet  the  llritish  author. 
dering  then,  doubtful  of  the  c"n<|iie-N  which  they  had  <,,  lately 
deemed  secure.  This.  1  e  it  remembered,  was  after  tie  defeat 
•  •f  (iates  at  Camden,  when  there  was  no  sign  of  a  Contin- 
army  within  the  state. 

It  was    nt    the    d"-e    of  a   cloudy  afternoon,  late    in    Ortol-pr, 
17VD.    when    Mat    I  )unhar,  wit h    a    -mall    command   of  eig! •• 
mounted    men,  approached    the    well-known    farmstead  •  t"    Fred 
erick  Sabb.      The  road    lay  ;d.>HLT   the  \ve<t    bank  of  t1 
branch  of  the  Kdist-i,  inclining  to  or  lt  ju 

eofftepoodenec  v-ith  the  width  of  the  swamp,  or  the  sinuo 
of  the  .stream.      The  fann  "f  Sabb  \\  a<  b»!H!'i. 
the    rise-,  and    hi-  within  a  mile   of  it.      1 

however,  the  Ian-!  'iiely  uncleared.      'I '! 

«  physical  banier  t"  t!  mid, 


SOUTHWARD    Iln  ! 

though  rich,  was  liable  to  freshet,  and  required  a  degree  <>t'  labor 
in  the  drainage  which  it  was  not  in  the  power  of  our  good 
Dutchman  to  bestow.  A  single  wagon-track  led  through  the 
wood  to  the  river  from  his  house ;  and  there  may  have  been 
some  half  dozen  irregular  foot-paths  tending  in  the  same  direc 
tion.  When  within  half  a  mile  from  the  house,  Mat  Dunbar 
pricked  up  his  ears. 

"  That  was  surely  the  gallop  of  a  horse,"  he  said  to  his  lieu 
tenant  —  a  coarse,  ruffianly  fellow  like  himself,  named  Clymes. 

"  Where  away  ?"  demanded  the  other. 

"  To  the  left.  Put  in  with  a  few  of  the  boys,  and  see  what 
can  be  found." 

Clymes  did  as  he  was  bidden ;  but  the  moment  he  had  dis 
appeared,  Dunhar  suddenly  wheeled  into  the  forest  also,  putting 
spurs  to  his  horse,  and  commanding  his  men  to  follow  and  scat 
ter  themselves  in  the  wood.  A  keen  suspicion  was  at  the  bottom 
of  his  sudden  impulse  ;  and,  with  his  pistol  in  his  grasp,  and  hit* 
teeth  set  firmly,  he  darted  away  at  a  rate  that  showed  the  eager 
ness  of  the  blood-hound,  on  a  warm  scent.  In  a  few  moments  the 
wood  was  covered  with  his  people,  and  their  cries  and  halloas 
answering  to  each  other,  turned  the  whole  solitude  into  a  scene 
of  the  most  animated  life.  Accustomed  to  drive  the  woods  for 
deer,  his  party  pursued  the  same  habit  in  their  present  quest, 
"ucloMng  the  largest  extent  of  territory,  and  gradually  contract 
ing  their  rordvn  at  a  given  point.  It  was  not  long  before  a  n-r- 
lain  degree  of  success  seemed  to  justify  their  pursuit.  A  loud 
shout  from  Clymes,  his  lieutenant,  drew  the  impetuous  Dunbar 
to  the  place,  and  there  he  found  the  trooper,  with  two  others  of 
the  party,  firmly  confronted  by  no  less  a  person  than  Frederica 
Sabb.  The  maiden  was  very  pale,  but  her  lips  were  closely 
compressed  together,  and  her  eyes  lightened  with  an  expre>sii-n 
which  was  not  so  much  indicative  of  anger  as  of  courage  and  re 
solve.  As  Dunbar  rode  up,  she  addressed  him. 

"You  an*  bravely  employed,  Captain  Dunbar,  in  hunting  with 
your  soldiers  a  feeble  wmnan." 

"In  faith,  my  dear  Miss  Sal.li,  we  looked  for  very  different 
game,"  replied  the  leader,  while  a  sardonic  smile,  played  over 
his  visaire.  "  But  pnrhnp*  y.-u  ran  put  us  in  the  way  of  finding 
it.  Yon  I  mo  ?  ' 


k'TK.\   QUtohSAfl   FOB    m-   K\K>." 

•'  And  why  IT. t  ?    You  an-  within  hail  of  my  father's  dwelling." 

"But  y.nirs.  surely,  arc  not  the  *  lonely  walks." 

•  •  Ala>!  MT,  these  are  scarcely  the  times  for  any  other." 

••  Wrli,  v« »u  must  permit  me  to  see  that  your  walks  arc  in  no 
danger  from  intrusion  and  insult.  You  will,  no  doubt,  be  con 
founded  to  hoar  that  scattered  Lands  of  the  rebels  are  supposed 
to  he.  even  now,  closely  harbored  iu  these  swamps.  That  vil 
lain.  Coulter,  is  known  to  l>e  among  them.  It  is  to  hunt  up 
these  outlyers —  to  protect  yon  from  their  annoyances,  that  1 
am  here  now." 

••  We  cau  readily  dispense  with  ther-e  sen  ices,  Captain  Dunbar. 
I  do  not  think  that  we  are  in  any  danger  from  such  enemies, 
and  in  this  neighborhood.'' 

It  was  some  effort  to  say  this  calmly. 

"Nay.  nav,  vi.it   are  quite   too  confident,  my  dear  Miss 
You  know  i:.it  the  audacity  of  these  rebels,  and  of  this  Richard 
Coulter  in  particular.     But  let  me  lay  hands  on  him  !      You  will 
hardly  hi-lieve  that  he  is  scarce  ten  minutes  gone  from  this  sp<>t. 
I>id  you  not  hear  his  h. 

••  I   heard  no  horses  but  your  own." 

14  There  it  is!      You  walk  the  woods  in  such  abstraction   that 
you  hear  not  the  danger,  though  immediately  at  your  ears.     But 
di-per-.-  yourselves  in  pursuit,  my  merry  men,  and  wh 
ine  the  e.irs  of  this  outlaw,  shall  have  ten  guineas,  in  the  yellow 
gold  itself.      No  continental  sham!      Remember,  his  »vi 
We   do  imt  want   any  pr:-<*n<'r<.      The   trouble  of  hanging  them 
out  ef  the  way  is  alway-  *  ed   by  a   sabre-cut  or  j.: 

bullet.      Thi-re.  ;\\\ 

The  countenance  of  Kre  lerira  Sabb  instnnth  MMQIIlcd  the 
keene.-t  exjirewsinn  of  alarm  and  anxiety.  He;-  wls. 

_-itatrd.      She  advanced  to  the  <!•'.••  « -i'  tl;e  ruffianly 
soldi«-r,  and  ]>ut  her  hand  up  apj  e^lin^ly. 

"Oh  !  Captnin  Dunl-ar,  will  you  net  please  go  hmne.  with  me, 
you  nn-i  HOW  OOf  supper-hour,  and  the  H 

1     j>ray    yu.    do    ii"t    think    of  >.(•.. nrin^' 
woods  at  this  Inte  hour.  :"  your  people  may  he  hurt." 

—  all  of  them 

"There   is  no  dan •.       I  There  is  nol 

thr  'f  no  ti^ul •!•-.  nor  v»-\r  TV 


270  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"Oli,  you  mistake!  there  is  surely  some  one  in  this  wood 
who  is  either  in  your  way  or  mine — though  you  heard  no 
horse." 

"  Oh  !  now  I  recollect,  sir,  I  did  hear  a  horse,  and  it  Denied 
to  be  going  in  that  direction." 

Here  the  girl  pointed  below.  The  tory  leader  laughed  out 
right. 

"  And  so  he  went  thither,  did  he  ?  Well,  my  dear  Miss  Sabb, 
to  please  you,  I  will  take  up  the  hunt  in  the  quarter  dinx-tJy 
opposite,  since  it  is  evident  that  your  hearing  just  now  is  exceed 
ingly  deceptive.  Boys,  away!  The  back-track,  hark  you  !—• 
the  old  fox  aims  to  double." 

"Oh,  go  not  —  go  not!"  she,  urged,  passionately. 

"Will  I  not?"  exclaimed  the  loyalist,  gathering  up  his  reins 
and  backing  his  steed  from  her  — "  will  I  not?  Away,  Clyines, 
—  away,  boys;  and  remember,  ten  guineas  for  that  band  which 
brings  down  the  outlaw,  Richard  Coulter." 

Away  they  dashed  into  the  forest,  scattering  themselves  in 

the  direction  indicated  by  their  leader.     Frederica  watched  their 

departure    with   an   anxious  gaze,  which    disappeared  from   her 

tlir  moment  they  were  out  of  sight.     In  an  instant  all  her 

.•imitation  ceased. 

'•  Now — thank  Heaven  for  the  thought !"  she  cried  —  "  it  will 
jiiitc  dark  before  they  find  themselves  at  fault ;  and  when  they 
think  to  begin  the  search  below,  he  will  be  wholly  beyond  their 
leach.     But  how  to  warn  him  against  the  meeting,  as  agreed  on. 
The  coming  of  this  man  forbids  that.      I  must  see  —  I  must  con 
trive  it."     And  with  these  muttered  words  of  half-menniujr. 
quietly  made  her  way  toward  her  father's  dwelling,  secure  of  the 
present  safety  i if  her  lover  from  pursuit.      She  bad  very  smv 
fully  practised  a  very  simple  rut€  for  his  escape.      Her  appivheu- 

e  only  but  admirably  simulated;  and,  in  telling  Duubar 

that  the  fugitive,  hud  taken  one  direcl'mn.  she  naturally  relied 
«MI  his  doubts  of  her  truth,  to  make  him  seek  the,  opposite.  She 
had  told  him  nothing  but  the  truth,  but  she  had  told  it  as  a  false 
hood  ;  and  it  had  all  t!  .  Inch  she  de.-iied.  The  cha-w 
of  the  tOiy-CapUUil  piove  !  UQ8UCC6ttfllL 


•i T    PBA(  1  !!','! 


<    HAI'TKU     Ml. 

IT  was  quite  dark  before  Captain  Dunbar  reached  the  o 

<>f    Frederick  Sahh,  and   lie   did    so  in  no    jMiml   humor.     1)1 
p« tinted  of  his  firry,  hr  now  su-pected  tlir  .simple  ru.\f  hy  which 
lie  had  hern  deluded,  and  his  first  salutation  of  Frcdcriea  Sahh, 
as  he  entered  the  cottage,  was  in  no  friendly  humor. 

"There  aro  certain  hirds,  Miss  Sahh,"  said  he,  "who  fly  far 
from  their  younp-  "lies  at  the  approach  of  the  hunter,  yet  make 
Mich  a  fuss  and  outcry,  as  if  the  nrst  were  elosr  at  hand  and  in 
danger.  I  see  you  havr  learned  to  practise  after  their  lessens." 

The  jrirl  involuntarily  replied  :  "  But,  indeed,  Captain  Dun- 
har,  I  heard  the  horse  g<>  hrlow." 

"I  see  you  undrrstand  me,"  was  the  answer.  1  feel  Assured 
that  you  told  me  only  the  truth,  hut  you  had  first  put  me  in  the 
humor  not  to  believe  it.  Another  time  1  shall  know  how  to 
understand  /.< 

•rica  smiled,  hut  did  not  seek  to  excuse  herself,  proceed 
ing  all  the  while  in  the  preparations  fur  supper.      This  had  i 
pit    in    rradinrss    especially    lor   the    arrival  of   Dunhar  and    his 
party.      He.  with    Clymes,  his   first   oinVer,  had    heroine   inmates 
of  the  dwelling;    hut  his  troupers  had    encamped  without,  under 
instnii-tiui,-,    ,,f    j, articular    vigilance.       Meanwhile,    supper    pr-i- 
•  •d.    Sahh    ami    his    rrotr    brinu'  very  heedful    of   all  the.    ex- 
•  ;•  conjectured  wants  of  their  arhitrarv  ^rue^ts.      It  was 
while  the  rejiast  was  in    pi'u--res>   that    Dunhar    fancied    that   he, 
beheld    a  c-.n-iilerahle    decree  of  une;'.-5i:i-«-s  in    the    manner  and 
onmtenai.    •       :    FVodericit      She    ate  ni.thinj:,  and   her  mind  an-i 
:.ied    equally  to  \\'andrr.       He    Mi>l!eid\'  a'!(!ie--ed    her, 
and  she  starte  1  a-  tY"iu  a  dream,  at  the  sound  of  her  own  i:am-. 
and  an-wered   cunfu-edlv. 

s    piin^    MrrOHgt"  Said    Dunbar.  in    a   whimper,  to 
;    "  we  can  juit  all  rijrht.  however,  if  we  trv." 

A   rigni/icfinl  l«>ok  aecompanidd  the  whisper,  and  madr  the 

•ml  ollirer  ..l.M-r\  ant .  When  Mtpper  was  r.inrludrd,  thi> 
eaptain  of  thr  loyalists  shuuc;  ,t  ueaiinr^  H.- 

yawnrd  and  stu-tchrd  himself  ama/in-!y.  and  witln»ut  much 

,  id  tu  pruprii't\-.       A  liki  •          '-  «•!'' 


272 

in  the  second  officer.  At  length  Dnnbar  said  to  Old  Sabb,  using 
a  style  of  address  to  which  the  old  man  was  familiar,  ""Well, 
I'ncle  Fred,  whenever  my  bed's  ready,  say  the  viord.  I'm 
ir.  Mistrous  like  sleep.  I've  ridden  a  matter  of  fifty  miles  to-day. 
IP.  the  saddle  since  four  o'clock  —  and  a  hard  saddle  at  that. 
I'm  for  sleep  after  supper." 

The  old  man,  anxious  to  please  his  guest,  whom  he  now 
began  rather  to  fear  than  favor,  gave  him  soon  the  intimation 
which  he  desired,  and  he  was  conducted  to  the  small  chamber,  hi 
a  shed-room  adjoining  the  main  hall,  which  had  bren  assigned 
him  on  all  previous  occasions.  Old  Sabb  himself  attended  his 
guest,  while  Lieutenant  Clymes  remained,  for  a  while  longer, 
the  companion  of  the  old  ladv  and  her  daughter.  Dunliar  soon 
released  his  host  from  further  attendance  by  closing  the  door 
upon  him,  after  bowing  him  out  with  thanks.  He  had  scarcely 
done  so,  before  he  approached  one  of  the  two  windows  in  the 
chamber.  He  knew  the  secrets  of  the  room,  and  his  plan  of 
operations  had  been  already  determined  upon.  Concealing  his 
light,  so  that  his  shadow  might  not  appear  against,  the  window, 
he  quietly  unclosed  the  shutter  so  as  to  rouse,  no  attention  by 
the  sound.  A  great  fig-tree  grew  near  it,  the  branches,  in  some 
degree,  preventing  the  shutter  from  going  quite  back  against 
the  wall.  This  afforded  him  additional  cover  to  his  proceedings, 
and  lie  cautiously  passed  through  the  opening,  and  lightly  de 
scended  to  the  ground.  The  height  was  inconsiderable,  and  he 
enabled,  with  a  small  stick,  to  close  the  window  after  him. 
fn  another  moment  he  parsed  un<l<-r  the  house,  which  stood  on 
logs  four  or  five  feet  high,  after  the  manner  »»f  the  country,  and 
took  a  crouching  attitude  immediately  behind  the  steps  in  tlut 
rear  of  the  building.  From  these  steps  to  the  kitchen  was  an 
interval  of  fifteen  or  eighteen  vards,  while  the  barn  and  other 
outhouses  lay  at  convenient  distances  beyond.  Shade-trees 
were  scattered  about,  and  fruit-trees,  chiefly  peach,  rendering 
the  Dtweon  something  like  a  covered  way.  We  need 

:io!  inquire  how  long  our  capt;iin  of  loyalists  continued  his  watch 
in  this  unpleasant  position.  1'atience,  however,  is  .|iiite  as  nat 
ural  as  necessary  a  quality  to  a  temper  at  once  passionate  and 
vindictive.  While  he  waited  here,  his  lieutenant  had  left  the 
house,  scattered  his  niuii  privily  about  the  grounds,  and  hud 


«>LL>   i;i;.»n;u. 

himself  stolen  to  a  porch,  which  enahled  hiai  to  command  tlin 
front  entrance  to  the  •  The  only  two  means  • 

WMB  thu-  effectually  guarded. 

In  a  little  time  the  lionsehol.l  was  completely  :juiet.  Dunbar 
liad  heard  the  muttering.  tVom  above,  of  the  family  prayers,  in 
which  it  was  no  part  "f  his  profe>si,,n  to  partake;  and  hnd 
heard  the  i'ont.steps  of  the  old  co\i)ile  as  they  passed  through 
the  passage-way  to  the  chamber  opposite  the  diuing-hall.  A 
chamher  adjoining  theirs  was  occupied  hy  Frederica  Sahb  ;  hut 
he  listened  in  vain  !'>.:•  iier  I'.otstep.s  in  that  quarter.  His  watch 
was  one  calcidaled  to  try  his  patience,  but  it  was  finally  re 
warded.  He  heard  the  movement  of  a  lijjht  foot  over  head. 
and  soon  the  door  opened  in  the  rear  of  the  dwelling,  and  he 
distinguished  Frederica  as  she  descended,  step  hy  step,  to  the 
ground.  She  paused,  looked  up  and  around  her,  and  then,  dart 
ing  from  tree  to  tree,  she  made  her  way  to  the  kitchen,  which 
ied  at  her  touch.  Here,  in  a  whisper,  she  .summoned  to  her 
side  a  nep-o  — nn  old  African  who,  we  may  at  the  same  time 
mention,  had  heen  her  irrijuent  emissary  itefore,  on  missions  such 
as  she  now  designed.  Hiou^h,  as  he  was  called,  was  a  faithful 
Kho,  who  loved  his  younir  mistress,  and  had  shown  himself  par 
ticularly  friendly  to  her  fij/'fiircx  tic  ctevr.  She  put  n  paper  into 
his  hands,  and  her  directions  employed  few  words. 

"  Bio:!_h.    \Mumii-t    s,-t  off  for    Mass    Richard,  and    ^rive  hi:,! 
this.      You    inn.st    keep    cln>e,  ,.r    tin-  will  catch   you.      i 

don't  know  \\here  they'\,-  --ne,  hut  no  donht  they're  M-nttered 
in  the  woods,  i  have  told  him,  in  this  paper,  not  to  conic,  as 
he  promised  ;  hut  should  you  ln.se  the  paper — " 

"  1  no  irnine  l«>M-'em."  said  Jiroujjh  >ci-iuinjrly  rather  displeas 
ed  at  the  douht,  tacitly  conveyed,  of  1. 

"Such    a    tiling   mi-ht   hap]>eii,  Ihou^h  ;    nay,  if  von  «! 

my  of  the  tories,  you   onjjht   to   (iestioy  it.      Hi  ie  it,  tear   it 
i:,).  01-  >  valli»\y  it.  x.  that  they  won't  he  ahl«»  to  read  it.  ' 

••  1  \  orry,  mil 

"  Very    -o.,d  I      Ami    now,  vhon  :;  Vhard.  tell 

him  not  to  come.      Tell  him  bttfc  th«  f.-ik, 

and  dtheri'iNer;    tor  that    Mat   I  )unhar  i.  |      j.ush 

after  him   to-morrow,  And    ha>    sworn    to  hunt    him  up  l.,-f  ne    he 

Tell    hi'n.  I    heur    him.  f..r  in;  \    i.ut 


274  >i>C TinVAIM)     lin  ' 

be  afraid  of  that  bad  man,  to  keep  out  of  big  way,  at   least  until 
he  gathers  men  enough  to  meet  him  on  his  own  ground." 

The  startling  voice  of  Dunbar  himself  broke  in  upon  the  whis 
pered  conference.  "  Mat  Dunbar  is  exceedingly  obliged  to  you, 
Miss  Sabb." 

"Ah!"  shrieked  the  damsel  —  "Brough  —  fly,  fly,  Brough." 
But  Brough  had  no  chance  for  flight. 

"  His  wings  are  not  sufficiently  grown,"  cried  the  loyalist,  with 
a  brutal  yell,  as  he  grappled  the  old  negro  by  the  throat,  and 
hurled  him  to  the  ground.  In  the  next  moment  he  possessed 
himself  of  the  paper,  which  he  read  with  evident  disappoint 
ment.  By  this  time  the  sound  of  his  bugle  had  summoned  his 
lieutenant,  with  half  a  dozen  of  his  followers,  and  the  kitchen 
was  completely  surrounded. 

"  Miss  Sabb,  you  had  best  retire  to  the  dwelling.  I  owe  you 
no  favors,  and  will  remember  your  avowed  opinion,  this  night,  of 
Mat  Dunbar.  You  have  spoken.  It  will  be  for  me  yet  to  speak. 
Lieutenant  Cl vines,  see  the  young  lady  home." 

"But,  sir,  you  will  not  maltreat  the  negro?" 

"  Oh  !  no !  I  mean  only  that  he  shall  obey  your  commands. 
He  shall  carry  this  note  to  your  favorite,  just  as  you  designed, 
with  this  difference  only,  that  I  shall  furnish  him  with  an  escort." 

-  Ah!" 

1'oor  Frederica  could  say  no  more.  Clymes  was  about  to 
hurry  her  away,  when  a  sense  of  her  lover's  danger  gave  her 
strength. 

"  Brough.''  she  cried  to  the  negro;  "you  won't  show  where 
Ma^s  Richard  keeps?" 

"  Never  show  dem  tory  not'in',  missis." 

The  close  gripe  of  Dunhar's  finger  upon  the  throat  of  the  ne 
gro  stilled  his  further  speech.     But    Frederica  was  permitted  to 
M  more.     The  hand  of  Clymes  was  laid  upon  her  arm,  Mid 
shr  went  forward  promptly  to  save  herself  from  indignity.     She 
little,  knew  the  scene  that  was  to  follow. 


THE   OBDKAL   Of   i:< )IMO  AND  TRKK.  275 


IV. 

THE  moment  she  had  disappeared  from  the  kitchen,  the  n« 
f,ro  was  taken  forth  by  the  captain  of  loyalists,  who  by  this  tim<» 
had  surrounded  himself  with  nearly  all  his  band.  A  single  sol 
dier  had  been  stationed  by  Clymes  between  the  house,  and 
kitchen,  in  order  to  arrest  the  approach  of  any  of  the  whites  from 
the  former  to  the  scene  where  Brough  was  about  to  undergo  a  cer 
tain  painful  ordeal.  The  stout  old  African,  doggedly,  with  a 
single  shake  of  his  head,  obeyed  his  captors,  as  they  ordered 
him  to  a  nei<_rhrioring  wood- — a  small  copse  of  scrubby  oaks,  that 
lay  between  the  settlement  and  the  swamp  forest  along  the  river. 
Here,  without  delay,  Brongh  was  commanded,  on  pain  of  rope 
and  hickory,  to  deliver  up  the  - . -en-t  of  Richard  Coulter's  hiding- 
place.  But  the  old  fellow  had  promised  to  be  faithful.  He 
stubbornly  refused  to  know  or  to  reveal  anything.  The  .scene 
which  followed  is  one  that  we  do  not  care  to  describe  in  detail. 
The  reader  n.ust  imagine  its  particulars.  Let  it  suffice  that  the 
poor  old  creature  was  haltered  by  the  neck,  and  drawn  up  re- 
.  dly  to  the  .swinging  limb  of  a  tree,  until  the  moral  nature, 
feeble  at  least,  and  overawed  by  the  terrors  of  the  last  mortal 
agony,  surrendered  in  despair.  Hnni^li  consented  to  conduct  the 
party  to  tlie  hiding-place  of  Richard  Coulter. 

The  savage  nature  of  Matthew  Dnnbar  was  now  in  full 

•f  mid    saddle!"    was  the  cry  ;    and,  with   the  negro,  both 
arms  pinioned,  and  running  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  dragoon's 

•d  ?o  the  stirrnp-leather,  and  in  con.  ant  da: 
should  lie  be  found  trip]. ing.  of  a  sudden  sabre  cut,  the  v, 
jiaity.  with  1  l«  their  May  i-..\vn  the  coi:- 

ami  mi- i«-r  the  guidance  of  the  African.  Two  of  the  soldiers  had 
been  j. laced  in  \\.-itch  up«m  the  premises,  with  instnictio;...,  ],ow- 
H  «T.  t  '  !.•  Bp  ••  -  m  :'-:!it,  and  m>t  - 

i.      Hut   the   suspicion  of  such  an  arrangement  in  e 
I  now  natural   encu_li  t  >  a  mind,  like    tha;  lira 

Said),  made  wary  bv  her  recent    mi-tortiine.      She  was  soon 
f  the    i!ep;:rtu;  •  l-.\al'-t    tl     :.      She    W9t 

^\*  !;;;t 


-7»»  SOUTHWARD    H<>  ! 

to  be  done?  Was  her  lover  to  be  caught  in  the  toils  ?  Was 
she  to  become  indirectly  the  agent  of  his  destruction  ?  She  de 
termined  at  all  events  to  forego  no  effort  by  which  to  effect  his 
escape.  She  was  a  girl  of  quick  wit  and  prompt  expedients. 
No  longer  exposing  herself  in  her  white  cotton  garments,  F.he 
wrapped  herself  closely  up  in  the  great  brown  overcoat  of  her 
father,  which  buried  her  person  from  head  to  foot.  She  stole 
forth  from  the  front  entrance  with  cautious  footsteps  employing 
tree  and  shrub  for  her  shelter  whenever  they  'offered.  In  this 
way  she  moved  forward  to  a  spot  inclining  to  the  river,  but 
taking  an  upward  route,  one  which  she  naturally  concluded  had 
been  left  without  a  guard.  But  her  objects  required  finally  that 
she  should  change  her  course,  and  take  the  downward  path,  as 
soon  as  she  could  persuade  herself  that  her  progress  was  fairly 
under  cover.  Still  she  knew  not  but  that  she  was  seen,  and 
perhaps  followed,  as  well  as  watched.  The  spy  might  arrest 
her  at  the  very  moment  when  she  was  most  hopeful  of  her 
object.  How  to  guard  against  this  danger?  How  to  attain  the 
necessary  security  ?  The  question  was  no  sooner  formed  than 
answered.  Her  way  lay  through  a  wilderness  of  leaves.  The 
silent  droppings  from  the  trees  for  many  years  had  accumulated 
around  her,  and  their  constant  crinkling  beneath  her  tread, 
drawing  her  notice  to  this  source  of  fear,  suggested  to  her  the 
means  of  safety.  There  had  not  been  a  rain  for  many  weeks. 
The  earth  was  pan-lied  with  thirst.  The  drought  had  driven 
the  sap  from  shrub  and  plant  ;  ami  just  below,  on  the  very  route 
taken  by  the  pursuing  party,  a  natural  meadow,  a  long,  thin 
strip,  the  seat  of  a  bayou  or  lake  long  since  dried  up,  was  cov 
ered  with  a  rank  forest  of  broom-grass,  parched  and  dried  by 
the  sun.  The  wind  was  fresh,  and  driving  right  below.  To 
one  familiar  with  the  effect  of  firing  the  woods  in  a  southern 
country  under  such  circumstances,  the  idea  which  ;  '  the 

mind  of  our  heroine  was  almost  intuitive.  She  immediately  stolfl 
back  to  the  house,  her  eagerness  finding  win^s,  which,  however, 
did  not  betray  her  caution.  The  sentinels  of  Dunbar  kept  < 
watch,  but  she  had  not  been  unseen.  The  cool,  deliberate  tory 
had  more  th.-n  once  fitted  his  finger  to  the  trigger  of  his  horse 
man's  pistol,  as  he  i  <  i  eld  the  rppronch  toward  him  of  the.  shroml- 
f ']  fi^'iip.  But  1m  \\  as  not  .  |  .(  \  (o  shov,  himself.  <^r  to 


FIKK    I\    THK    \VIH»IJ>.  '277 

tin-  alarm  before  he  could  detect  the  objects  of  lii>  unknown  vis- 
iter.  H»-r  return  to  the  hnu>e  ^a-  not  beheld.  He  had  lost 
sight  «»t'  her  in  the  woods,  and  fancied  her  still  to  be  in  the  neigh- 
horhool.  Unable  to  recover  bis  clue,  he  still  maintained  hia 
portion  waiting  e\ents. 

It  was  not  long  before   she  reappeared  upon  the   scene.     He 

did  not  see  the  figure ,  until  it  crossed  an  open  space,  mi  his  right, 

in  the  direction  ot   the  river,      lie  saw  it  stoop  to  the  earth,  and 

he   then    hounded   forward.      His   haste  was  injurious  to  his  oh- 

II.-    it-11  over    the    ji<-!rate    trunk  of   a    pine,  which  had 

:    thrown   down  for  ranging   timber  only  a  few  days   before, 
and  lay  dark,  with  all  its  bark  upon  it,  in  the  thick  c<»ver  of  the 
His  pistol  went  off  in  bis  fall,  and  before  be  could  recov 
er  his  feet,  he  was  confounded  to  find  himself  threatened  by  a 
rapid  rushing  forest  of  flame,  setting  directly  toward  him.     For 
a  moment,  the  Midden  blaze   blinded  him,  and  when  be  opened 
:  liiy  up"ii  surrounding  objects,  be  saw  nothing  human 
— -nothing  but  the  great  dark  shafts  of  pine,  beneath  which   the 

was  rushing  with  the  roar  and  volume  of  swollen  billows  of 
the  sen.  breaking  upon  the  shore  which  they  promise  to  engulf. 
T«  save  himselt,  to  oppose  fire  to  fire,  or  pass  boldly  through 
the  flame  where  it  burned  most  feebly,  was  now  a  first  necessity  ; 
and  we  b-ave  him  n»  extricate  himself  as  he  may,  while  we  fol 
low  the  progress  ,,f  Fieo  rim  Sabh.  The  tlame  which  she  had 

.led   in  the   dry  grass  and   leaves,  from  the.  little  old   stable- 
lantern  ot    the  cottage,  concealed    beneath    the  great-coat  of 
lather,  had  sufficed   as  a  perfect  cover  to  her  movements.     The 
fire  swept  below,  and  in  the  direction  of  the  tory  sentinel*.     The 

nice  ot  the  one,  she  had  perceived,  in  the  moment  when  she 
was  communicating  the.   bla/ing    candle    to  the    furze.      She  fan- 
not   when  she    heard  t  .         -t«d  ;    but 

-ing  her  hand  to  her  heart,  the  lantern  still  in  her  grasp,  she 
darted  headl  rd  by  one  of  the  paths  leading  directly  to 

the  liv.-r.      TlM  tiie  was   now  r ••_  :•  all    the  tract  betv 

her  and   the.   t««rv  >-..-•  from   the  pine 

ridge,  and  passed  into  the  low  flat  land,  strewed  wi'li  gray  cy- 
pn  .->i  •-  .with  theii  thousand  krurs,  or  abutments.  '1'he  -\\an.p 
was  nearly  di-;.  She  found  her  way  ab'?;g  a  well-known  j.atlj 
to  tbf  river,  and  from  benenth  a  clumji  "t  >brr- 


278  SOI  TH\VAKI)    F!0| 

drew  forth  a  little  dug-out,  the  well-known  cypress  e.-.noe  of  the 
country.  This  was  a  small  egg  shell-like  structure,  scarcely 
capable  of  holding  two  persons,  which  she  was  well  accustomed 
to  manage.  At  once  she  pushed  boldly  out  into  the  broad  stream, 
whose  sweet  rippling  flow,  a  continuous  and  gentle  murmur,  was 
strangely  broken  by  the  intense  roar  and  crackling  of  the  fire 
as  it  swept  the  broad  track  of  stubble,  dry  grass  and  leaves, 
which  lay  in  its  path.  The  lurid  shadows  sometimes  passed 
over  the  surface  of  the  stream,  but  naturally  contributed  to  in 
crease  her  shelter.  With  a  prayer  that  was  inaudible  to  her^'K, 
she  invoked  Heaven's  mercy  on  her  enterprise,  as,  with  a  strong 
arm,  familiar  in  this  exercise,  she  plied  from  side  to  side  the  lit 
tle  paddle  which,  with  the  favoring  currents  of  the  river,  soon 
carried  her  down  toward  the  bit  of  swamp  forest  where  her  lover 
found  his  refuge.  The  spot  was  well  known  to  the  maiden, 
though  we  must  do  her  the  justice  to  say  she  would  never  have 
sought  for  Richard  Coulter  in  its  depths,  but  in  an  emergency 
like  the  present.  It  was  known  as  "  Bear  Castle,"  a  close  thick 
et  covering  a  sort  of  promontory,  three  fourths  of  which  was  en 
circled  by  the  river,  while  the  remaining  quarter  was  a  deep 
swamp,  through  which,  at  high  water,  a  streamlet  forced  its  way, 
converting  the  promontory  into  an  islet.  It  was  unfortunate  for 
'  ;lter  and  his  party  that,  at  this  season  the  river  was  much 
lower  than  usual,  and  (he  swamp  offered  no  security  on  the  land 
side,  unless  from  the  denseness  of  the  forest  vegetation.  It 
might  now  be  passed  dry  shod. 

The  distance  from  "  Bear  Castle"  to  the  farmstead  of  old 
J'Yedi-rifk  Sabh,  was,  by  laud,  but  four  or  five  miles.  By  water 
if  was  fully  ten.  If,  therefore,  the  stream  favored  the  progress 
«>f  our  heroine,  the  difference  against  Dunbar  and  his  tories  was 
more  than  equalled  by  the  shorter  route  before  him,  and  the 
f-tart  v,  Inch  he,  had  made  in  advance  of  Frederica.  But  Brough 
M'I  willing  guide.  He  opposed  freijnent  difficulties  to  the 
distasteful  pm^ress.  an>i.  as  they  neared  the  spot.  Dunbar  found 
it  lie  ,,  iii.-ike  a  second  application  of  the  halter  l>et'«rc 

the  good  old  negro  could  be  got  forward.     The  love  of  life.,  the 
f'rar  .'»t'  death,  proved  superior  to  his  loyalty. 

uld    ha\ '  '"intity  '•«'  —  uay,  ho 

:  ( •    V,  1 1  !  1  • .  i  i  t 


BEAR   CASTLE.  279 

MULT.  hut  bis  courage  tailed,  when  the  danger  was  tliat  of  being 
launched  into  eternity.  A  shorter  process  than  the  cord  or 
swinging  linih  would  not  have  found  him  so  i>liant.  With  a 
choking  groan  ho  promised  to  submit,  and,  with  heart  swollen 
almost  to  bursting,  he  led  the  route,  off  from  the  main  road  now, 
and  through  the  sinuous  little  foot-paths  which  conducted  to  the 
place  of  refuge  of  our  patriots. 

It  was  at  this  point,  having  ascertained  what  space  lay  be- 
tueen  him  and  his  enemy,  that  Dunhar  dismounted  his  troopers. 
The  horses  were  left  with  a  guard,  while  the  rest  of  his  men, 
under  his  personal  lead,  made  their  further  progress  on  foot. 
His  object  was  a  surprise.  lie  designed  that  the  negro  should 
give  the  "  usual"  signal  with  which  he  had  heeu  taught  to  ap 
proach  the  camp  of  the  fugitive;  and  this  signal  —  a  shrill  whis 
tle,  three  times  sounded,  with  a  certain  measured  pause  between 
each  utterance  —  was  to  he  given  when  the  swamp  was  entered 
over  which  the  river,  in  high  stages  of  the  water,  made  its  breach. 
The.se  instructions  were  all  rigidly  followed.  Poor  Brough,  with 
the  rupe  about  his  neck,  and  the  provost  ready  to  fling  the  other 
end  of  the  cord  over  the  convenient  arm  of  a  huge  sycamore 
under  which  they  stood,  was  incapable,  of  resistance.  But  his 
strength  was  not  equal  to  his  submi.— i'.n.  His  whittle  was  but 
f'eehlv  sounded.  His  heait  tailed  him  and  his  voice;  and  a  re 
peated  contraction  of  the  cord,  in  the  hands  of  the  provost,  was 
found  essential  {,,  make  him  repeat  the  effort,  and  give  iii<>re 
volume  to  his  voice.  In  the  meanwhile,  Dunhar  cautiously 
pushed  his  men  forward.  They  passed  through  great  boll 
where,  at  full  water,  the  alligator  wallowed;  where  tin  \\  h 
ing  crane  sought  his  prey  at  nightfall;  where  the  i'<-\  slept  in 
safety,  and  the  wild-cat  in  a  1'avorite  domain.  "Bear  t  'a.-th  •" 
was  the  fortress  of  many  fugitive*.  AgeM  Cjrpjre886l  lay  like  the 
f'Mindati'  .  \\all.s.  along  the  path,  and  great  thorny 

vines  an<i  il.imi.ng,  tlo\\ny  c  u  i |.ei>  flauuifd  their  '  .-am- 

er.-,  in  the  faces  of  the  midnight   .  'lirough    their   solitn 

The  lOUte  Would    h.i\e    bftCn    tJin00l    i-.i  iiN.-a:  le  during   the 
for  moil  on  horseback  ;    it   I  and    t«»il>ome 

by  night    I't-r    n,r:i    «n    foot       I'-'.!    1  )unl  ar,  nothing    doiibtii. 
the   proximit  \  .  id   with    n 

v.hieh  «»irl\    did  not  I'oi-^.-t  its  j-.-.utuui. 


280  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE  little  party  of  Richard  Coulter  consisted  of  four  persons 
besides  himself.  It  AV.IS,  perhaps,  an  hour  before  this  that  he  sat 
apart  from  the  rest  conversing  with  one  of  his  companions.  This 
was  no  other  than  Elijah  Fields,  the  methodist  preacher.  He 
had  become  a  volunteer  chaplain  among  the  patriots  of  his  own 
precinct,  and  one  who,  like  the  bishop  of  Beauvais,  did  not  scru 
ple  to  wield  the  weapons  of  mortal  warfare  as  well  as  those  of 
the  church.  It  is  true  he  was  not  ostentatious  in  the  manner  of 
the  performance  ;  and  this,  perhaps,  somewhat  increases  its  mer 
it.  He  was  the  man  for  an  emergency,  forgetting  his  prayers 
when  the  necessity  for  blows  was  pressing,  and  duly  remember 
ing  his  prayers  when  the  struggle  was  no  longer  doubtful.  Yet 
Elijah  Fields  was  no  hypocrite.  He  was  a  true,  strong-souled 
man,  with  blood,  will,  energies  and  courage,  as  well  as  devotion, 
and  a  strong  passion  for  the  soil  which  gave  him  birth.  In  plait* 
terms,  he  was  the  patriot  as  well  as  the  preacher,  and  his  man 
hood  was  required  for  both  vocations. 

To  him,  Ivhhard  Coulter,  now  a  captain  among  the  partisans 
of  Sumter,  had  unfolded  the  narrative  of  his  escape  from  Dun- 
bar.  They  had  taken  their  evening  meal ;  their  three  compan 
ions  were  busy  with  their  arms  and  horses,  grouped  together  in 
the  centre  of  the  camp.  Our  two  principal  persons  occupied  a 
little  headland  on  the  edge  of  the  river,  looking  up  the  stream. 
They  were  engaged  in  certain  estimates  with  regard  to  the  num 
ber  of  recruits  expected  daily,  by  means  of  which  Coulter  was 
in  hopes  t<»  turn  the  tables  on  his  rival  ;  becoming  the  hunter 
instead  of  the  fugitive.  We  need  not  go  over  the  grounds  of 
their  discussion,  and  refer  to  the  general  progress  of  event* 
throughout  the  state.  Enough  to  say  that  the  Continental  army, 
defeated  under  Gates,  wnn  in  course,  of  reorganization,  nnd  re- 
appTOftcbing  under  (Jrrrne;  that  Marion  had  been  recently  ac 
tive  and  successful  below  ;  and  that  Sumter,  defeated  hy  Tarle- 
ton  at  Fishing  creek,  w;ts  rapidlv  recruiting  his  force  at  the  fool 
of  the  mountains.  Richard  ('<>ulter  had  not  been  utterly  unsnc- 
c«-»ful  in  the  same  along  the  Edisto.  A  rende/vo< 

IIH  recruits  \va>  appointed    to  take    place   on    the  ensiiim--   Sulur- 


BROrcH'-   SKJNAL. 

:  and,  at  this  ronde/v«m«.  it  was  hoped  tliat  h»-  would  find 
at  loast  thirty  stout  fellows  in  attendance.  Hut  wo  anticipate. 
It  was  while  in  the  discus.sion  of  these  snhjects  that  the  eyes  of 
(  ;!ter,  still  looking  in  the  direction  of  his  heart,  were  attracted 
hy  tlu»  Midden  blaze  which  swept  the  forests,  and  dyed  in  lurid 
splendor  the  very  lace  of  heaven.  It  had  been  the  purpose  of 
.erica  Sjibb,  in  setting  lire  to  the  undergrowth,  not  only  to 
shelter  her  own  progress,  hut  in  this  way  to  warn  her  lover  of 
his  danger.  But  the  effect  was  to  alarm  him  l«»r//r/-  safety  rath 
er  than  his  own. 

"That  lire  is  at  Sahb's  place."  \\as  his  first  remark. 

"  It  looks  like  it."  was   the  reply  of  the  preacher. 

"Can  it  be  that  Dunhar  has  burnt  the  old  man's  dwelling  ?" 

••Hardly!" 

"  He  is  not  too  good  for  it,  or  for  anything  monstrous. 
He  has  burnt  others  —  old  Kumph's — Ferguson's,  and  many 

•    Eel  '    i  nt  he  prefers  to  own,  and  not  destroy  old  Sabh' 

as  he  has  a  hope  of  getting  Frederica,  he  will  scarcely  com 
mit  such  an  outran 

"  But  if  she  has  refused  him  —  if  she  answers  him  as  she  feels, 
scornful  lv — " 

n  then  he  will  prefer  to  punish  in   a  different  way.      He 
will  Anther  ch<  Obe  to  take  the  place  by  confiscation  than  burn  it. 
He  has  never  put  that   lire,  or  it  is   not  at    Sabb's,  but  this 
of  it,  or  beyond  if." 

••  It  may  be  the  act  of  some  drunken  trooper.  At  all  events, 
it  reijuire*.  that  we  should  be  on  the  look-out.  I  will  scout  it  for 
a  while  and  see  what  the  mischief  is.  Do  you.  meanwhile,  keep 
everything  I  a  start." 

"That  fire  will  r.rver  reach  US." 

"  Not  with  this  wind,  perhaps;  but  the  enemy  may.  He  evi 
dently  beat  the  woods  after  my  l.erls  this  evening,  and  may  be 
here  to-morrow,  on  my  track.  \V.-  Keep 

the  horses  saddled  and    bitted.  H  Mfl   open  for  any  sum- 

mODS.      Ha  !    by  h<  it   is  Brough's  signal  now." 

"  Is  it  Brought  .'  It  M,  it  i-  scarcely  from  Bnnigh  in  a  healthy 
state.  The  old  fellow  must  have  caught  cold  going  to  and  fro 
at  alJ  hours  in  the  service  of  Cupid." 


282  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

Our  preacher  was  disposed  to  be  merry  at  the  expense  of  our 
lover. 

"  Yes,  it  is  Brough's  signal,  but  feeble,  as  if  the  old  fellow 
was  really  sick.  He  has  probably  passed  through  this  fire, 
and  has  been  choked  with  the  smoke.  But  ho  must  have  an 
answer." 

And,  eager  to  hear  from  his  beloved  one,  our  hero  gave  his 
whistle  in  reply,  and  moved  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  isth 
mus.  The  preacher,  meanwhile,  went  toward  the  camp,  quite 
prompt  in  the  performance  of  the  duties  assigned  him. 

"He  answers,"  muttered  the  tory  captain;  "the  rebels  are 
Delivered  to  our  hands!"  And  his  preparations  were  sternly 
prosecuted  to  make  a  satisfactory  finish  to  the  adventure  of  the 
night.  He,  too,  it  must  be  remarked,  though  somewhat  wonder 
ing  at  the  blazing  forest  behind  him,  never  for  a  moment  divined 
the  real  origin  of  the  conflagration.  He  ascribed  it  to  acci 
dent,  and,  possibly,  to  the  carelessness  of  one  of  the  troopers 
whom  he  left  as  sentinels.  With  an  internal  resolution  to  make 
the  fellow,  if  offending,  familiar  with  the  halberds,  he  pushed 
forward,  as  we  have  seen,  till  reaching  the  swamp ;  while  the 
fire,  obeying  the  course  of  the  wind,  swept  away  to  the  right  of 
the  path  kept  by  the  pursuing  party,  leaving  them  entirely  with 
out  cause  of  apprehension  from  this  quarter. 

The  plans  of  Dunbar,  for  penetrating  the  place  of  Coulter's 
refuge,  were  as  judicious  as  they  could  be  made  under  the  rir- 
cumstanccs.  Having  brought  the  troopers  to  the  verge  of  the 
encampment,  the  negro  was  fastened  to  a  tree  by  the  same  rope 
which  had  so  frequently  threatened  his  neck.  The  tories  pushed 
forward,  each  with  pistol  cocked  and  ready  in  the  grasp.  They 
had  scattered  themselves  abroad,  so  as  to  form  a  front  sufficient 
to  cover,  at  moderate  intervals,  the  space  across  the  isthmus. 
But,  with  the  withdrawal  of  the  immediate  danger,  Brough's 
courage  returned  to  him,  and,  to  the  furious  rage  and  discomfi 
ture  of  Dunbar,  the  old  negro  set  up  on  a  sudden  a  most  bois 
terous  African  howl  —  such  a  song  as  tho  Ebo  cheers  himself 
with  when  in  the  doubtful  neighborhood  oi  ;.  jungle  which  may 
hide,  the  lion  or  the  tiger.  The  sound  re-echoed  through  tho 
swamp,  and  startled,  with  a  keen  suspicion,  not  only  our  captain 
of  patriots,  but  the  preacher  and  his  associates.  Brough's  voice 


THK  RANDOM  r.n.i.KT.  2S8 

was  wgll  known  t<>  them  all  ;  Imt  that  Umugh  should  use  it  I 
such  a  fashion  was  quite  as  unexpected  to  them  as  to  Dunbar 
ami  his  t»nes.  One  of  the  latter  immediately  dropped  back,  in 
tending  to  knock  the  negro  regularly  on  tin-  head;  and,  doubt- 
le--.  such  would  have  been  the  fate  of  the  fellow,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  progress  of  events  which  called  him  elsewhere.  Richard 
Coulter  had  pressed  forward  at  double  quirk  time  as  he  hear.; 
the  wild  chant  of  the  African,  and,  being  familiar  with  the  re- 
.  it  occupied  but  little  space  to  enable  him  to  reach  the  line 
which  the  party  of  Dunbar  was  slowlv  making  its  wav. 
Id  aring  but  a  single  ibotfall,  and  obtaining  a  glimpse  of  a  single 
liirure  onh.  Coulter  repeated  his  whistle.  He  was  answered 
with  a  pistol  shot  —  another  and  another  followed;  and  he  had 
time  only  to  wind  his  bugle,  giving  the  signal  of  flight  t.>  his 
comrades,  when  he  felt  a  sudden  sickness  at  his  heart,  and  a 
faintness  which  only  did  not  atVect  his  judgment.  He  could  still 
feel  his  danger,  and  his  strength  sutlsci-d  to  enable  him  to  roll 
himself  close  beside  the  massive  trunk  of  the  cypress,  upon  which 
he  had  unhappily  been  perched  when  his  whistle  drew  the  fire 
upon  him  of  several  of  the  approaching  partv.  Scarcelv  had 
he  thus  covered  himself  from  a  random  search  when  he  sunk  into 
insensibility. 

.while,  "  B»iar  Castle,"  rang  with  the  signals  of  alarm  and 

assault.     At  t1  und  of  danger,  Elijah  Fields  dashed  for- 

uhich    ('oulter   had    taken.      But    the    pri- 

••d  lor  the  other  was  unanswered,  and 

'lie  assailants  Y,-O.  •  -ow  l>:vaking  through  the  swamp,  and  were 
to  be  heard  on  every  hand.  To  retreat,  to  rally  his  comrades, 
in  i:  into  the  river  and  take  the  stream, 

;.il  llie  work  oi  an  h.Mant.      From  the  middle  of  the  >wee|»- 
ing  current  the  shouts  of  hate  and  defiance  rame  to  the  eai 
the    tones  as    they  broke    from  the    mpse    and    appeared  on    the 
banks  of  the  river.      A  momentary  glimpse  of  the  dark  bulk   of 
one  or  more  Meeds  as    they  Whirled    round    an  interposing   in>a<l- 
land.  drew  from  them  the  remaining   bullets  in  their  pistols,  but 
without    success;    and,  ignorant  oi    the  eilect  of  a    ran.i.iin  builet 
uptiii  tin-  very  j-eisoii  whom,  of  all,  he  most    desired   t- 
Mat  Dunbar  felt  himself  once  more  foiled   in  a  pursuit  which  he 
had  this  time  undertaken  with  every  earnest  of  SUCC688. 


284  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"  That  d d  African  !"  was  his  exclamation.  "  But  he  shall 

hang  for  it  now,  though  he  never  hung  before." 

With  this  pious  resolution,  having,  with  torches,  made  such 
an  exploration  of  Bear  Castle  as  left  him  in  no  doubt  that  all 
the  fugitives  had  escaped,  our  tory  captain  called  his  squad 
together,  and  commenced  the  return.  The  fatigue  of  passing 
through  the  dry  swamp  on  their  backward  route  was  much 
greater  than  when  they  entered  it.  They  were  then  full  of 
excitement  —  full  of  that  rapture  of  the  strife  which  needs  not 
even  the  feeling  of  hate  and  revenge  to  make  it  grateful  to  an 
eager  and  impulsive  temper.  Now,  they  were  baffled  ;  the  ex 
citement  was  at  an  end  ;  and,  with  the  feeling  of  perfect  disap 
pointment  came  the  full  appreciation  of  all  the  toils  and  exertions 
they  had  undergone.  They  had  but  one  immediate  consolation 
in  reserve,  and  that  was  the  Lang-ing  of  Brough,  which  Dunbar 
promised  them.  The  howl  of  the  African  had  defeated  their 
enterprise.  The  African  must  howl  no  longer.  Bent  on  mur 
der,  they  hastened  to  the  tree  where  they  had  left  him  bound, 
only  to  meet  with  a  new  disappointment.  The  African  was 
there  no  longer. 

0  H  A  P  T  K  R     VI 

IT  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  rage  .-.:•..-;.  ;v.ry  of  our  cap 
tain  of  loyalists  when  he  made  this  discovery.  The  reader  will 
imagine  it  all.  But  what  was  to  be  done  ?  WAS  tlis  prey  to 
be  entirely  lost  ?  And  by  what  agency  had  Brough  ma-ib  his 
escape  I  He  had  been  securely  fastened,  it  was  ''nought,  and 
in  such  a  way  as  seemed  to  render  it  iirnjosr,-'b!»;  tl;at  lie  chouid 
have  been  extricated  from  his  bonds  without  i:.<-  .v-e  of 

another.  This  conjecture  led  to  a  renewal  of  the  starch.  The 
rope  which  fastened  the  negTO  lay  on  the  ground,  severed,  as  by 
a  knife,  in  several  places.  Now,  Brough  could  not  use  his 
hands.  If  he  could,  there  would  have  been  no  sort  of  necessity 
for  using  his  knife.  Clearly,  he  had  found  succor  from  another 
apency  than  his  own.  Once  more  our  loyalists  darted  into  the. 
recesses  of  Bear  ('astir;  their  torches  were  to  be  seen  flaring 
in  *'\v:-y  part  of  that  dcn.-e  patch  of  swamp-forest,  as  they 
WAV*  .-very  spot  which  seemed  to  promise  conceal 

iiient  to  the  fugitive. 


rat  noBv-Toi  i  285 


•   Hark!"  cried  Dunhar.  wli«->r  ears  were  <|uickened  l»y  eager 
and  bafiled  passions.     "Hark!    I  hear  the  dip  nf  a  paddle." 

He  was  right.  They  darted  forth  from  the  woods,  ami  when 
'Jit  v  reached  the,  river's  edge,  they  had  a  glimpse  of  a  small 
dark  object.  which  they  readily  conceived  to  be  a  canoe,  just 
rounding  "lie  ot'  the  projections  of  the  shore  and  going  out  of 
sip-lit,  full  a  hundred  yards  below.  Here  was  another  mystery. 
The  ramifications  of  Bear  Castle  seemed  numerous;  and,  mys 
tified  ns  well  as  mortified.  Dunbar,  after  a  tedious  delay  and  a 
1  v  renewed,  took  up  the  line  of  inarch  back  for  old 
Sabh's  cottage,  inly  resolved  to  bring  the  fair  Fivderica  to  terms, 
or.  in  some  way,  to  make  her  pay  the  penalty  for  his  disappoint 
ments  of  the.  night.  He  little  dreamed  how  much  she  had  to  do 
with  them,  or  that  her  hand  had  fired  the  forest-grasses,  whose 
wild  and  terrific  blaze  had  first  excited  the  apprehensions  and 
compelled  the  caution  of  the  fugitives.  It  is  for  us  to  show 
what  further  agency  she  exercised  in  this  nocturnal  history. 

We  left  her  alone,  in  her  little  dug-out,  paddling  or  drifting 
down  the  river  with  the  stream.  She  pursued  this  pro- 
with  proper  caution.  In  approaching  the  headlands  around 
which  the  river  swept,  on  that  side  which  was  occupied  by  Dun- 
bar,  she  suspended  the  strokes  of  her  paddle,  leaving  her  silent 
boat  to  the  direction  of  the  currents.  The  night  was  clear  and 
beautiful  and  the  river  uudefaced  by  shadow,  except  when  the 
current  bore  her  beneath  tbe  overhanging  willows  which  grew 
numerously  along  the  margin,  or  when  the  winds  Hung  i: 

•s  .if  smoke  from  the  burning  WO  -  its  bright,  smooth 

Kurtace.      With  the^e  exceptions,  the  stream  shone  in  a  light  not 
less  clear  and  beautiful  because  va'_rue  and  cap-'.  Moonlight 

and  starlight  seem  to  make  a  special   atmosphere  for  youth,  and 
tin*  heart  which    loves,  even  when    most    troubled  with  anxi- 
for    the    beloved    one,   never,   at    such    a    I6M01I,    proves    wh.'llv 
hwensible  to  the  soft,  seductive  inline:  ,-h  an  atmosphere, 

Our  Frederica  was  not  the  her»h  .....  f  convention.  She  had 
r  imbibed  romance  from  honks;  but  she  had  affect:.  n<  out 
of  which  hooks  might  lie  written,  filled  with  all  those  qualities. 
at  once  strong  and  tender,  which  make  the.  heroine  in  the  mo- 
fceilt  of  emergency.  Her  heart  softened  fed  in  the  c,  -li 

tre    of  her  little    vessel.  sh»'   watched    the    soft    light    upon    the 


286  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

wave,  or  beheld  it  dripping,  in  bright,  light  droplets,  like  fairy 
glimpses,  through  the  overhanging  foliage.  Of  tear  —  four  for 
herself — she  had  no  feeling.  Her  apprehensions  were  all  for 
Richard  Coulter,  and  her  anxieties  increased  as  fho  approached 
the  celebrated  promontory  and  swamp-forest,  known  to  this 
day  upon  the  river  as  "  Bear  Castle."  She  might  be  too  late. 
The  captain  of  the  loyalists  had  the  start  of  her,  and  her  only 
hope  lay  in  the  difficulties  by  which  he  must  be  delayed,  going 
through  a  blind  forest  and  under  imperfect  guidance  —  for  she 
still  had  large  hopes  of  Brough's  fidelity.  She  wax  too  late — 
too  late  for  her  purpose ;  which  had  been  to  forewarn  her  lover 
in  season  for  his  escape.  She  was  drifting  toward  the  spot 
where  the  river,  at  full  seasons,  made  across  the  low  neck  by 
which  the  promontory  of  "  Bear  Castle"  was  united  with  the 
main  land.  Her  paddle  no  longer  dipped  the  water,  but  was 
employed  solely  to  protect  her  from  the  overhanging  branches 
beneath  which  she  now  prepared  to  steer.  It  was  at  her  ap 
proach  to  this  point  that  she  was  suddenly  roused  to  apprehen 
sion  by  the  ominous  warning  chant  set  up  by  the  African. 

"  Poor  Brough!  what  can  they  be  doing  with  him  ?"  was  her 
question  to  herself.  But  the  next  moment  she  discovered  that 
this  howl  was  meant  to  be  a  hymn;  and  the  peculiar  volume 
which  the  negro  gave  to  his  utterance,  led  her  to  divine  its  im 
port.  There  was  little  time  allowed  her  for  reflection.  A  moment 
after,  and  just  when  her  boat  was  abreast  of  the  bayou  which 
Dunbar  and  his  men  were  required  to  cross  in  penetrating  the 
place  of  refuge,  she  heard  the  sudden  pistol  shooting  under  which 
Coulter  had  fallen.  With  a  heart  full  of  terror,  trembling  with 
anxiety  and  fear,  Frederica  had  the  strength  of  will  to  remain 
quiet  for  the  present.  Seizing  upon  an  overhanging  bough,  she 
lay  concealed  within  the  shadow  of  the  copse  until  the  loyalists 
had  nished  across  the  bayou,  and  were  busy,  with  lighted  torche.-, 
exploring  the  thickets.  She  had  heard  the  bugle  of  Coulter 
sounded  as  he  was  about  to  fall,  after  being  wounded,  and  her 
quick  consciousness  readily  enabled  her  to  recognise  it  as  her 
r's.  But  she  had  heard  no  movement  afterward  in  the  quar 
ter  from  which  came  the  blast,  and  could  not  conceive  that  he 
Mj'iuh!  have  made  his  way  to  join  his  comrades  in  the  space  of 
time  allowed  between  that  and  the  moment  when  she  heard 


TIIK   i:i:.\\  i:  «,iuL. 


.hem  taking  to  the  river  with  their  horses.  This  difficulty  hid 
to  IH-VV  {'cars,  wliicli  were  agoni/ing  BlKNlgh,  i>ut  m>t  of  a  sorl  to 
make  lier  fi.rgrtful  of  what  was  due  to  the  person  whom  she 
,-ame  to  save.  She  waited  only  until  the  torrent  had  passed  the 
straits  —  until  the  havoc  was  silent  —  when  she  fastened  her 
ittle  boat  t«>  the  willows  which  completely  enveloped  her,  and 
Ih-ldlv  >tepped  upon  the  land.  With  a  rare  instinct  wliieii  pro\ed 
how  deeply  her  heart  had  intere:,ted  itself  in  the  operations  of 
.icr  -en-es.  *he  moved  directly  to  the  spot  whence  she  had  heard 
the  bugle-note  of  her  lover.  The  place  was  not  far  distant  frori 
the  point  where  .-he  had  been  in  lurking.  Her  progress  was  ar- 
1  by  the  prostrate  trunk  of  a  great  cypress,  which  the  hur 
ricane  might  have,  cast  down  some  litty  years  before.  It  was 
with  some  diiliculty  that  she  scrambled  over  it;  but  while  cros- 
sinjr  it  she  heard  a  faint  murmur,  like  the  voice  of  one  in  pain, 
.ahoring  to  speak  or  cry  aloud.  Her  heart  misgave  her.  Sim 
hurried  to  the  spot.  Again  the  murmur  —  now  certainly  a  moan. 
It  i>  at  her  feet,  but  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  cypress,  which 
she  a  The  place  was  very  dark,  and  in  the  moment 

•vheM,  f  i  oin  loss  of  blood,  he  was  losing  consciousness,  Richard 
.her  had  carefully  crawled  close  to  the  cypress,  whose  bulk, 
in  this  way,  effectually  covered  him  from  passing  footsteps.  She 
ibund  him,  still  warm,  the,  flow  of  blood  arrested,  and  his  con 
sciousness  returning. 

"  Richard!  it  is  me—  Frcderica  !" 

He  only  sighed.  It  required  but  an  instant  for  reflection  <m 
the  part  of  the  damsel  ;  and  rising  from  the.  place  where  she  had 
crouched  beside  him,  she  darted  away  to  the  upper  grounds  where 
Hrough  still  continued  to  pour  out  his  dismal  ejaculations  —  now 
of  psalu.s  and  song,  and  now  of  mere  whoop,  Ifhlloo  and  im 
precation.  A  full  heart  and  a  light  lout  make  quick  progTWB 
when  they  go  together.  It  was  necessary  that  Frederica  should 
lose  no  time.  She  had  every  reason  to  suppose  that,  fai!ij?g  to 
.secure  their  prey,  the  t.-iics  wuld  suticr  no  delay  iu  rh.t-  -Lvket. 
Fortunately,  the  continued  dies  of  linuigh  left  l-er  ;.f  :.••  time 
doubtful  of  his  where-ahouts.  She  soon  found  1  :  •  .1  to 

Lis   tree,  in  a  state  suiiieiently  uncoinf..rt;.  •  am 

bition  did  not  at  all  incline  him  to  n  tut,      ^'«^t 

martyrdom  was  now  his  te.u.    His  tirst  taftilMl 


288  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

the  alarm  to  the  patriots,  were  succeeded  by  feelings  ot'  no  pleaa 
aiit  character.      He  had  already  had  a  taste  of  Dunbar's  punish 
iw.jits,  and   he  dreaded  still  worse  at   his  hands.     The  feeling 
which   had   changed   his  howl  of  warning:  into  one  of  lament  - 
his  whoop  into  a  psalm  —  was  one  accordingly  of  preparation 
lie  was  preparing  himself,  as  well  as  he  could,  after  his  African 
fashion,  for  the  short  cord  and  the  sudden  shrift,  from  which  ho 
lied  already  so  narrowly  escaped. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  fellow's  rejoicing  as  he  became 
aware  of  the  character  of  his  new  visiter. 

"  Oh,  Missis!  Da's  you?  Loose  'em!  Cut  you*  nigger  lo<  se! 
Le'  'em  run  !  Sich  a  run  !  you  nebber  see  de  like  !  I  take  d  ^se 
woods,  dis  yer  night,  Mat  Dunbar  nebber  see  me  'gen  long  \s 
he  lib!  Ha!  ha!  Cut!  cut,  missis!  cut  quick  !  de  rope  is  wo.V 
into  my  berry  bones  !" 

"But  I  have  no  knife,  Brough." 

"No  knife!  Da's  wha'  woman  good  for!  No  hab  knife! 
Take  you  teet',  misses  —  gnaw  de  rope.  Psho !  wha'  I  tell 
you  1  Stop  !  Put  you*  han'  in  dis  yer  pocket — you  fin'  knife; 
if  I  no  loss  em  in  de  run." 

The  knife  was  found,  the  rope  cut,  the  negro  tree,  all  in  much 
Jftss  time  than  we  have  taken  for  the  narration  ;  and,  hurrying 
the  African  with  her,  Frederica  was  soon  again  beside  the  person 
of  her  lover.  To  assist  Brough  in  taking  him  upon  his  back,  to 
help  sustain  the  still  partially  insensible  man  in  this  position  un 
til  he  could  be  earned  to  the  boat,  was  a  work  of  quick  resolve, 
which  required,  however,  considerable  time  for  performance.  But 
patience  and  courage,  when  sustained  l>y  love,  become  wonder 
ful  powers ;  and  Richard  Coulter,  whose  moans  increased  with 
his  increasing  sensibility,  was  finally  laid  down  in  the  bottom  of 
the  dug-out,  his  head  resting  in  the  lap  of  Frederica.  The  In. at 
could  hold  no  more.  The  faithful  Brough,  pushing  her  out  inta 
the  stream,  with  his  hand  still  resting  nn  stern  or  gunwale,  swnrn 
along  with  her,  as  she  quietly  floated  with  the  currents.  We 
have  seen  the.  narrow  escape  which  the  little  vessel  had,  as  she 
rounded  the  headland  below,  just  as  Duul>ar  came  down  upon 
tin.  braeii.  liu  l:e  l.eeu  there  when  the  canoe  first  began  to 
round  the  point,  it  would  have  1  to  have  raptured  the 

whole  party  ;   since   tiic   stream,  somewhat  narrow  at    this  place, 


LOVE    IN    TIIK    -\VAMI'. 

*pt  in  for  the  shore  which  tin*  tm-ies  occupied,  and  a  stout  swim 
mer  might  h,v  drawn  the  little  argosy  upon  the  banks. 


<  IIAPTKU   VM. 

To   one   familar  with  the    den-e    swamps  that    skirt  tlio  rivers 
through  the  alluvial  bottom  lands  of  the  Smith,  there  will  he  no 

•  ulty  in  comprehending  the  tart  that  a  fugitive  may  find 
temporary  security  within  half  a  mile  of  his  enemy,  even  where. 
his  pursuers  hunt  for  him  in  numbers.  Thus  it  happened  that, 
in  taking  to  the  river,  our  little  corporal's  guard  of  patriots,  un 
der  the  direction  of  Elijah  Fields,  the  worthy  preacher,  swim 
ming  dieir  lmrses  round  a  point  of  land  mi  the  opposite  shore, 
sought  shelter  hut  a  little  distance  below  "  Hear  island,"  in  a 
similar  tract  of  swamp  and  forest,  and  alun»>t  within  rifleshot  of 
their  late  retreat.  They  had  no  fear  that  their  enemy  would 
attempt,  at  that  late  hour,  and  after  the  long  fatigue  of  their 
recent  inarch  and  search,  to  cross  the  mer  in  pursuit  of  them  ; 
and  had  they  been  wild  enough  to  do  so,  it  was  equally  easy  to 
hide  from  search,  or  to  fly  from  pursuit.  Dunhar  felt  all  this  as 
sensibly  as  the  fugitives;  and,  with  the  conviction  of  his  entire 
failure  at  "Bear  Castle,"  he  gave  up  the  game  fur  the  present. 

::while,  the  little  hark  of  Frederica  Sahh  made  its  way  down 
the  river.  She  made  her  calculations  on  a  just  estimate  of  the 
probabilities  in  the  situation  of  Coulter's  party,  and  was  n< <: 
ceived.  As  the  boat  swept  over  to  tin-  opposite  shore,  utter 
rounding  the  point  of  land  that  lay  between  it  and  "  Hear  Oft** 
tie,"  it  was  hailed  by  Field.-,  for  whom  Urmigh  had  ,  --.\er. 

Some  delay,  the  fruit  of  a  proper  caution.  took  place  before  our 
fugitives  were  properly  sensible  of  the  character  of  the  strai 
but    the    i  I,  that,  with    returning   consciousness.    Richard 

Coulter  I'.mnd  himself  mice  more  in  safety  with  his  triends  ;  and, 

il  more  precious  satisfaction,  attended  by  the  woman  of  his 
heart.  It  was  not  long  before  all  the  ad\  entures  of  Fred- 

in  hi-  ]-•  :.!rit  became  newly  strengthened 

for  conflict  and  endurance  by  such  proofs  of  a  more  than  feminine 
attachment  which  the  brave  young  girl  had  shown.     Let  us  h 
the  little  party  for  a  MCMO,  while  we  return  with  the  captain  of 
loyalists  to  the  farmstead  ofold   Frederick  Sabb. 

11 


'J90 

Hero  Mat  Dunhar  bad  again  taken  up  his  quarters  as  before, 
but  with  a  difference.  Thoroughly  enraged  at  his  disappointment, 
and  at  the  discovery  that  Frederica  had  disappeared  —  a  fact 
which  produced  as  much  disquiet  in  the  minds  of  her  parents,  a? 
vexation  to  her  tory  lover  ;  and  easily  guessing  at  all  of  the  steps 
which  she  had  taken,  and  of  her  object  ;  lie  no  longer  5m] 
any  restraints  upon  his  native  brutality  of  temper,  which,  while 
lie  had  any  hope  of  winning  her  affections,  he  had  been  at  some 
pains  to  do.  His  present  policy  seemed  to  be  to  influence  her 
fears.  To  reach  her  heart,  or  force  her  inclinations,  through  the 
dan^exs  of  her  parents,  was  now  his  object.  Unfortunately,  the 
lax  discipline  of  the  British  authority,  in  Carolina  particularly, 
in  behalf  of  their  own  followers,  enabled  him  to  do  much  toward 
this  object,  and  without  peril  to  himself.  He  had  anticipated 
the  position  in  which  he  now  found  himself,  and  had  provided 
against  it.  He  had  obtained  from  Col.  Nesbitt  Balfour,  the  mil 
itary  commandant  of  Charleston,  a  grant  of  the  entire  farmstead 
of  old  Sabb  —  the  non-committalism  of  the  old  Dutchman  ne\er 
having  enabled  him  to  satisfy  the  British  authorities  that  he  was 
a  person  deserving  their  protection.  Of  the  services  and  loyalty 
of  Dunbar,  on  the  contrary,  they  were  in  possession  of  daily  evi 
dence.  It  was  with  indescribable  consternation  that  old  Sabb 
looked  upon  the  massive  parchment  —  sealed,  signed,  and  made 
authoritative,  by  stately  phrases  and  mysterious  words,  of  the  pur 
port  of  which  he  could  only  conjecture  —  with  which  the  fierce 
Dunbar  denounced  him  as  a  traitor  to  the  king,  and  expelled  him 
from  his  own  freehold. 

"<  )h  !  mein  Gott!"  was  his  exclamation.  "And  did  the  goot 
king  Tshorge  make  dat  baber?  And  has  de  goot  king  Tshorge 
take  awav  mv  grants?" 

The  onlv  answer  to  this  pitiful  appeal,  vouchsafed  him  by  the 
captain  of  loyalists,  was  a  brutal  oath,  as  be  smote  the  document 
fiercely  with  his  hand  and  forbade  all  further  inquiry.  Jt  may 
have  been  with  some  rejrard  to  the  probability  of  his  future  mar 
riage in  spite  of  all  —  with  the  old  Dutchman's  daughter,  that 

he  permitted  him.  with  his  wife,  to  occupy  an  rid  log-house 
which  stood  upon  the  estate.  He  established  himself  within  the 
duelling-house,  which  he  occupied  as  a  garrisoned  post  with  all 
his  sol-liers.  Here  he  ruled  as  a  sovereign.  The  proceeds  of 


AKF  AIR>   AT  'i  HK   I  \i:v-  '.\:\\>.  291 

the  fann  were  yielded  to  liini,  tin1  miserable  pittance  excepted 
which  ho  Mifierod  to  go  to  tin-  su|)j)oi-t  of  tin-  old  couple.  Sabb 
had  a  few  slaves,  who  were  now  taught  to  recognise  Dunbar  ae 
their  master.  They  did  not  serve  him  long.  Three  of  them 

to  the  woods  the  night  .succeeding  the  tory's  usurpation, 
and  hut  two  remained  in  his  keeping,  rather,  perhaps,  through 
the  vigilance  <>f  hi>  -entincls,  aiul  their  own  fears,  than  because 
of  anv  love  which  thev  entertained  for  their  new  custodian, 
iioth  ot'  these  were  women,  and  one  of  them  no  less  a  person 
than  the  consort  of  Brough,  the  African.  Mrs.  Brough  — or,  as  we 
had  better  call  her — she  will  understand  us  better  —  Jlitm/  (the 
diminutive  of  Jemima),  was  particularly  watched,  as  through  her 
it  was  hoped  to  get  some  clue  to  her  husband,  whose  treachery, 
it  was  the  bitter  resolution  of  cur  tm-y  captain  to  punish,  as  soon 
as  he  had  the  power,  with  exemplary  torture-.  Brough  had  some 
Scions  of  his  design,  which  it  was  no  part  of  his  policy  to 
;  but  this  did  not  discourage  him  from  an  adventure  which 
brought  him  again  very  nearly  into  contact  with  his  enemy.  He 
determined  to  visit  his  wife  by  stealth,  relying  upon  his  knoub 

'!ie  woods,  his  own  caution,  and  the  thousand  little  arts 
with  which  his  race  usually  takes  advantage  of  the  careless 
the  inditVerenee,  or  the  ignorance  of  its  superior.  His  wife,  he 
well  knew,  coiiM-ions  of  his  straitx  wmihl  afford  him  MSJ4 
in  various  ways.  He  succeeded  in  set-ing  her  just  brf..re  the 
da\\n  of  day  one  morning,  and  from  her  discovered  the  whole 
situation  of  affairs  at  the  farmstead.  Thi>  came  to  him  with 
rianv  exaggerations;  particularly  when  Mirny  described  the 
treatment  to  which  old  Sabb  and  hi>  wife  had  been  subjected. 
1IU  tale  did  not  l".-e  any  of  it>  facts  or  dimensions  when  carried 
by  I'iri.ugh  to  the  fugitives  in  the  >wamp  t  :  Edisto.  The 

of  a  character  to  nvt-rw  helm  the  aiVecti"iiate  and  dutiful 
heart  "['  1  Sabb.      She  instantly  felt  the  nece>Mty  1  • 

her.  and  prepared  herself  to  encounter  it.     Nine  day-  and  nights 
had  she  spent  in  the  fore-t  retreats  «>f  her  lover.    Every     tender- 
and  forbearance  had  been  shown    her.      Nothing  had  taken 
place    to   outrage    the  delicacy    of   the    female    heart  ;    ami    pure 
in    her    mind    had    kept    her   free    from    any    annoying 
doubts  about  the  propriety  of  her  situation.     A  leafy  screen  from 
the  sun,  a  sylvan  bo\\  er.  of  broad  branches  ami  thickly-that 


292  SOUTHWARD    HO 


leaves,  had  been  prepared  for  her  com-h  at  night ;  and,  in  one 
contiguous,  lay  her  wounded  lover.  His  situation  had  amply 
reconciled  her  to  her  own.  His  wound  was  neither  deep  nor 
dangerous.  He  had  bled  copiously,  and  swooned  rather  in  con 
sequence  of  loss  of  blood  than  from  the  severity  of  his  pains. 
But  the  hands  of  Elijah  Field  —  a  rough  but  not  wholly  inexpe 
rienced  surgeon — had  bound  up  his  hurts  ;  which  were  thus  per 
mitted  to  heal  from  the  first  intention.  The  patient  was  not  slow 
to  improve,  though  so  precious  sweet  had  been  his  attendance  — 
Krederica  herself,  like  the  damsels  of  the  feudal  ages,  assisting 
to  dress  his  wound,  and  so  tender  him  with  sweetest  nursing,  that 
he  felt  almost  sorry  at  the  improvement  which,  while  lessening 
!iis  cares,  lessened  her  anxieties.  Our  space  will  not  suffer  us  to 
Iwell  upon  the  delicious  scenes  of  peace  and  love  which  the  two 
enjoyed  together  in  these  few  brief  days  of  mutual  dependence. 
They  comprised  an  age  of  immeasurable  felicity,  and  brought 
the  two  together  in  bonds  of  sympathy,  which,  however  large 
had  been  their  love  before,  now  rendered  the  passion  more  than 
ever  at  home  and  triumphant  in  their  miUual  hearts.  But,  with 
the  tidings  of  the  situation  in  which  her  parents  suffered,  and  the 
evident  improvement  of  her  lover,  the  maiden  found  it  necessary 
to  depart  from  her  place  of  hiding  —  that  sweet  security  of 
shade,  such  as  the  fancy  of  youth  always  dreams  of,  but  which 
it  is  the  lot  of  very  few  to  realize.  She  took  her  resolution 
promptly. 

"  I  must  leave  you,  Richard.  "I  must  go  home  to  my  poor 
mother,  now  that  she  is  homeless." 

lh-  would,  if  he  could,  have,  dissuaded  her  from  venturing  her 
self  within  the  reach  of  one  so  reckless  and  brutal  as  Mat  Dun- 
bar.  But  his  sense  of  right  seconded  her  resolution,  and  though 
lie  expressed  doubts  and  misgivings,  and  betrayed  his  uneasiness 
and  anxiety,  he  had  no  arguments  to  offer  against  her  purp'-f. 
She  heard  him  with  a  sweet  smile,  and  when  he  had  finished, 
she  said  :  — 

'•  But  I  will  give  you  one  security,  dear  Richard,  before  we 
part,  if  you  will  suffer  me.  You  would  have  married  me  more 
than  a  year  ago;  but  as  I  knew  my  father's  situation,  his  pref> 
erences,  and  his  dangers.  1  refuse*!  to  do  so  until  the  war  was 
over.  It  has  not  helped  him  that  I  refused  you  then.  I  don't 


MARRIACK    AND    CAPTIVITY. 

sco  that  it  will  hurt  him  if  I  marry  you  now  ;  and  there  is  some 
thing  in  the  lift-  wo  have  spout  together  the  last  few  clays,  that 
tolls  mo  wo  ought  to  be  married,  Richard.'' 

This  was  spoken  with  the  swectot  possible  blush  upon  her 
cliooks. 

'•  Do  you  consent,  then,  dear  Freclerica  ?"  demanded  the  en 
raptured  lover. 

She  put  her  hand  into  his  own  ;  he  carried  it  to  his  lips,  then 
drew  her  down  to  him  where  he  lay  upon  his  leafy  couch,  and 
.•itod  the  same  liberty  with  hers.  His  shout,  in  another 
moment,  summoned  Elijah  Field  to  his  side.  The  business  in 
;>ect  was  soon  explained.  Our  good  parson  readily  concur 
red  in  the  proprietv  of  the  proceeding.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
little  camp  of  refuse  were  soon  brought  together,  Brough  placing 
himself  directly  behind  his  young  mistress.  The  white  teeth  of 
the  old  African  grinned  his  approbation;  the  favoring  skies 
looked  down  upon  it,  soft  in  the  dreamy  twilight  of  the  evening 
sunset;  and  there,  in  the  natural  temple  of  the  forest  —  none 
surely  over  prouder  or  more  appropriate  —  with  columns  of  gi 
gantic  pine  and  cypress,  and  a  Gothic  luxuriance  of  vine,  and  leaf, 
and  flower,  wrapping  shaft,  and  cornice,  capital  and  shrine,  our 
two  lovers  were  united  before  God  —  our  excellent  preacher 
never  having  a  more  solemn  or  grateful  sense  of  the  ceremony, 
and  never  having  been  more  sweetly  impressive  in  his  manner 
of  performing  it.  It  did  not  impair  the  validity  of  the  marriage 
that  Brough  honored  it,  as  he  would  probably  have  done  his 
own,  by  dancing  Julm.  for  a  full  hour  after  it  was  over,  to  his 
.  \\n  satisfaction  at  least,  and  in  the  absence  of  all  other  w:' 
868.  Perhaps,  of  all  his  little  world,  thoie  were  mme  whom  the 
old  negro  l..ved  (juite  so  much,  white  or  black,  as  his  \ 
mistress  and  her  youthful  husband.  With  the  midnight,  Fred- 
erica  left  the  camp  of  refuse  under  the  conduct  of  Elijah  Fields. 
They  departed  in  the  boat,  the  preacher  pulling  up  stream  — 
no  MSJT  work  against  a  current  of  four  knots  —  with  a  vigorous 
arm,  which,  after  a  tedious  space,  brought  him  to  the  landing 
opposite  old  Sabb's  farm.  Here  Frederiea  landed,  and  the  dawn 
of  day  found  her  standing  in  front  of  the  old  log-house  which 
had  been  assigned  her  parents,  and  a  captive  in  the  strict  custody 
of  the  tory  sentries. 


294  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

IT  was  with  feelings  of  a  tumultuous  satisfaction  that  Mat  Dun- 
bar  found  himself  in  possession  of  this  new  prize.  lie  at  once 
conceived  a  new  sense  of  his  power,  and  prepared  to  avail  him 
self  of  all  his  advantages.  But  we  must  sutler  our  friend  B rough 
to  become  the  narrator  of  this  portion  of  our  history.  Anxious 
about  events,  Coulter  persuaded  the  old  African,  nothing  loath,  to 
set  forth  on  a  scouting  expedition  to  the  farmstead.  Following 
his  former  footsteps,  which  had  been  hitherto  planted  in  secu 
rity,  the  negro  made  his  way,  an  hour  before  daylight,  toward 
the  cabin  in  which  Mirny,  and  her  companion  Lizzy,  a  young 
girl  of  sixteen,  were  housed.  They,  too,  had  been  compelled  to 
change  their  abodes  nnder  the  tory  usurpation  ;  and  now  occu 
pied  an  ancient  tenement  of  logs,  which,  in  its  time,  had  gone 
through  a  curious  history.  It  had  first  been  a  hog-pen,  next  a 
hunter's  lodge  ;  had  stabled  horses,  and  had  been  made  a  tem 
porary  fortress  during  Indian  warfare.  It  was  ample  in  its 
dimensions  —  made  of  heavy  cypresses;  but  the  clay  which  had 
filled  its  interstices  had  fallen  out ;  of  the  chimney  nothing  re 
mained  but  the  fireplace;  and  one  end  of  the  cabin,  from  the 
decay  of  two  or  more  of  its  logs,  had  taken  such  an  inclination 
downward,  as  to  leave  the  security  which  it  offered  of  ex 
ceedingly  dubious  value.  The  negro  does  not  much  regard 
these  things,  however,  and  old  Mirny  enjoyed  her  sleeps  here 
quite  as  well  as  at  her  more  comfortable  kitchen.  The  place, 
indeed,  possessed  some  advantages  under  the  peculiar  circum 
stances.  It  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  limestone  sink-hole  —  one  of 
those  wonderful  natural  cavities  with  which  the  country  abounds. 
This  was  girdled  by  cypresses  and  pines,  and,  fortunately  t<»r 
Brough,  at  this  moment,  when  a  drought  prevailed,  was  entirely 
t'lom  water.  A  negro  loves  anything,  perhaps,  better  than 
water  —  he  would  sooner  bathe  in  the  sun  than  in  the  stream,  and 
would  rather  wad*  through  a  fore.st  full  of  snakes  than  sufViiM- 
his  epidermis  unnecessarily  with  an  clement  which  no  one  will 
M  was  made  f«.r  his  uses.  It  was  important  that  the  sink 
hole  near  Mirny's  abode  should  be  dry  at  this  juncture,  for  it  was 
IK- re  that  Brough  found  his  hiding-place.  He  could  approacl 
this  place  under  cover  »f  the  woods.  There  was  au  awkward 


KSPIU.VAGE.  ~''.;> 

interval    ..I'  t,'  fifteen  feet,  it  is  true,  hetween  this  place 

and  tlie  hovel,  which  the  inmates  had  stripped  of  all  its  growth 
in  the  search  tor  fuel  ;  hut  a  dusky  form,  on  a  dusky  night,  care 
ful  to  crawl  over  the  space,  might  ea-ily  escape  the  casual 
glance  of  a  i!i  itinel;  and  Brough  was  jiartisan  enough 

to  kn-»w  that  the  hot  caution  implies  occasional    rxpo>ure.      He 
u-'t    umxilling   to   incur   the    ri>k.     We  must  not  detail  his 

,   ^uigh   that,  hy  dint  of  crouching,  crawliv 

ing,  rolling,  and  sliding,  he  had  contrived  to  hurv  himself,  at 
•ii  under  the  wigwam,  occupying  the  space,  in  part,  of  a  de- 
caved  l"g  connected  with  the  clayed  chimney,  and  fitting  him 
self  to  the  space  in  the  log,  from  which  he  had  scratched  out  the, 
rotten  fragment?.,  as  snugly  as  if  he  were  a  part  of  it.  Thus, 
with  his  head  toward  the  lire,  looking  within  —  his  hody  hidden 
from  those  within  hr  the  nndecayed  portions  uf  the  timher  —  with 
Mirny  on  his  side  of  the  fireplace,  squat  upon  the  hearth,  and 
bu.sy  with  the  hominy  pot  ;  Bmugh  might  carry  on  the  im-st  in- 
:ing  convcr.-ation  in  the  world,  in  whispers,  and  occasionally 
he  fed  from  the  spoon  "f  his  spouse,  or  drink  from  the  calabash, 
withoHt  any  innocent  per>on  sii-pecting  his  jtropimjuity.  We 
will  suppose  him  thus  quietly  ensconced,  liis  old  woman  heside 
him,  and  deeply  huiied  in  thv  domestic  lii>tnii«-s  which  he  came 
:i.  \\ '.•  must  suppi.M-  all  the  preliminaries  to  he  des}>atched 
already,  which,  in  the  etfM  "f  an  African  ilnimatix  jtersonee,  are 
usually  wonderfulh'  minute  and  cojii 

"  And  dis  nigger  tory,  hf.'s  mau>-a  yer  for  true?" 

"  I  tell  yu.  lin- ugh,  he's  desp'r't  had  !  He  tek'  ehhry  ting 
f«»r  he'sef!  li  ir>|  ehhry  ting  for  him  —  we  nigger, 

de  plantation.  ho«,s.  Img,  hominy  ;  and  ef  y<.nn^  mi<ses  no  marry 
um — -you  yeddy  I  [hear]  —  he  will  han^  <>le  maussa  up  to  de 
sapling,  same  as  you  hang  sc  '.\i  de  ci.rnt'ud'  '" 

Brough  gmaiied  in  the  hittrnu-.^  of  his  .spirit. 

"  Wha'  ford,,,  lirou-h  >." 

"  \\'h«>  Lr\\  ine  sa\-  .'  1  'spec  he  inns  ii^lit  I'm1  um  yet.  Mass 
Dick  no  chicken'  He  guiiu*  light  like  de  dehhil,  soon  he  get 
strong,  't'-re  dis  tin-  -wine  happen.  He  hah  soilger,  and  more 

come.      I'arvn     'Lijah    gwiue    fight    too  —  and    dis    ui| 
gwine  light.  >o«mer  dan   dis  tory  ride,  whip  and   spur,    ohcr  we 
plantatio"  " 


296  SOUTHWARD    HO ! 

"  Why.  wha'  you  tink  dese  tory  say  to  me,  Brough  ?" 

"  Wha'  he  say,  woman  ?" 

"  He  say  he  gwine  gib  me  hundred  lash  ef  I  no  get  he  breck- 
kus  [breakfast]  by  clay  peep  in  de  morning !" 

"De  toiy  wha'  put  hick'ry  'pon  you'  back,  chicken,  he  hab 
answer  to  Brough." 

"  You  gwine  fight  for  me,  Brough  ?" 

"  Wid  gun  and  bagnet,  my  chicken." 

"  Ah,  I  blieb  you,  Brough  ;  you  was  always  lub  me  wid  you' 
sperrit !" 

"  Enty  you  blieb  1  You  will  see  some  day  !  You  got  'noder 
piece  of  bacon  in  de  pot,  Mirny  ?  Dis  hom'ny  'mos'  too  dry  in 
de  t'roat." 

"  Leetle  piece." 

"  Gi'  me." 

His  creature  wants  were  accordingly  supplied.  We  must  not 
forget  that  the  dialogue  was  carried  on  in  the  intervals  in  which 
he  paused  from  eating  the  supper  which,  in  anticipation  of  his 
coming,  the  old  woman  had  provided.  Then  followed  the  reca 
pitulation  of  the  narrative  ;  details  being  furnished  which  showed 
that  Dunbar,  desperate  from  opposition  to  his  will,  had  thrown 
off  the  restraints  of  social  fear  and  decency,  and  was  urging  his 
measures  against  old  Sabb  and  his  daughter  with  tyrannical  se 
verity.  He  had  given  the  old  man  a  sufficient  taste  of  his  power, 
enough  to  make  him  dread  the  exercise  of  what  remained.  This 
rendered  him  now,  what  he  had  never  been  before,  the  advocate 
himself  with  his  daughter  in  behalf  of  the  loyalist.  Sabb's  vir 
tue  was  not  of  a  self-sacrificing  nature.  lie  was  not  a  bad  man 
— was  rather  what  the  world  esteems  a  good  one.  He  was  just, 
as  well  as  he  knew  to  be,  in  his  dealings  with  a  neighbor;  was 
not  wanting  in  that  charity  which,  having  first  ascertained  its 
own  excess  of  goods,  gives  a  certain  proportion  to  the  needy; 
he  had  offerings  for  the  church,  and  solicited  its  prayers.  But 
he  had  not  the  courage  and  strength  of  character  to  be  virtuous 
in  spite  of  circumstances.  In  plain  language,  he  valued  the  se 
curities  and  enjoyments  of  his  homestead,  even  at  the  peril  of 
his  daughter's  happiness.  He  mired,  with  tears  and  reproaches, 
that  soon  became  vehement,  the  suit  of  Dunbar,  as  if  it  had  been 
bis  own  ;  and  even  his  good  iron-  Minnirker  S.ibb,  overwhelmed 


\i 

l>y  his  afflictions  and  her  own,  joined  somewhat  in  his  entreaty. 
\Ve  may  imagine  poor  Frederica's  afflictions.  She  had  not  dared 
to  reveal  to  either  the  secret  of  her  marriage  with  Coulter.  She 
now  dreaded  its  discovery,  in  regard  to  the  probable  effect  which 
it  might  have  upon  Dunbar.  What  limit  would  there  be  to  his 
fury  and  brutality,  should  the  fact  become  known  to  him?  How 
—  how  meet  i:  es  ?  She  trembled  as 

she  reflected  upon  the  possibilitv  of  his  making  the  discovery; 
and,  while  inwardly  swearing  eternal  fidelity  to  her  husband,  she 
resolved  still  to  keep  her  secret  close  from  all,  looking  to  the 
chapter  of  providential  events  for  that  hope,  which  .-he  had  not 
the  power  to  draw  from  anvthing  within  human  probability. 
Her  eyes  naturally  tinned  to  her  hu.sband,  first  of  all  mortal 
,;-.  P.ut  she  had  no  voice  which  could  reach  him  —  and 
what  was  his  condition?  She  conjectured  the  visits  of  old 
Brough  to  his  spouse,  but  with  these  she  was  prevented  from  all 
;  r,.nference.  Her  hope  was.  that  Mimy,  seeing  and  hear 
ing  for  heiself,  would  duly  report  to  the  African;  and  he,  she 
well  knew,  would  keep  nothing  from  her  husband.  We  have 
witnessed  the  conference  between  this  venerable  couple.  The 
result  corresponded  with  the  anticipations  of  Frederica.  Brough 
hurried  hack  with  hi*  gloomy  tidings  to  the  place  of  hiding  in 
the  swamp  ;  and  Coulter,  still  suffering  somewhat  from  his 
wound,  and  conscious  of  the  inadequate  force  at  his  control,  for 
the  rescue  of  hN  wife  and  people,  was  almost  maddened  by  the 
intelligence.  He  looked  around  upon  his  party,  now  increased 
to  seven  men,  not  including  the  parson.  But  Elijah  Fields  «  as 
a  host  in  himself.  The  men  were  also  true  and  capable  —  good 
ri  tie  men,  good  M-.-UK.  and  as  fearle--  a*  they  were  faithful.  The 
troop  under  Duubar  OOIlflittod  of  r'.-liteen  men,  all  well  armed 
and  mounted.  The  odd-;  wen-  great,  hut  the  despair  of  Richard 
prepared  to  i»verl.».k  -ill  inequalities.  Nor  was 
Fit-bis  disposed  to  di-courage  him. 

"There  is  no  hope  but  in  ourselves.  Elijah,"  was   the    r- 
of  Coulter. 

••  Tr.ily,  and  in  God  !"  was  the  reply. 

"  We  mu.t  make  the  effort." 

"  Verily,  we  must." 
'  We  have  seven  men,  nut  counting  yourself.  Elijah." 


298  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"  I  too  am  a  man,  Richard,"  said  the  other,  calmly. 

"A  good  man  and  a  brave;  do  I  not  know  it,  Elijah?  Bnt 
we  should  not  expose  you  on  ordinary  occasions." 

"This  is  no  ordinary  occasion,  Richard." 

41  True,  true  !     And  you  propose  to  go  with  us,  Elijah  ?" 

"  No,  Richard  !  I  will  go  before  you.  I  must  go  to  prevent 
outrage.  I  must  show  to  Dunbar  that  Frederica  is  your  wife. 
It  is  my  duty  to  testify  in  this  proceeding.  I  am  the  first  wit 
ness.'' 

"  But  your  peril,  Elijah  !  He  will  become  furious  as  a  wild 
beast  when  he  hears.  He  will  proceed  to  the  most  desperate 
exgeai 

"  It  will  be  for  you  to  interpose  at  the  proper  moment.  You 
must  be  at  hand.  As  for  me,  I  doubt  if  there  will  be  much  if 
any  peril.  I  will  go  unarmed.  Dunbar,  while  he  knows  that  I 
am  with  you,  does  not  know  that  I  have  ever  lifted  weapon  in 
Uie  cause.  He  will  probably  respect  my  profession.  At  all 
events,  I  must  interpose  and  save  him  from  a  great  sin,  and  a 
cruel  and  useless  violence.  When  lie  knows  that  Frederica  is 
irrevocably  married,  he  will  probably  give  up  the  pursuit.  If 
Brough's  intelligence  be  true,  he  must  know  it  now  or  never." 

"Be  it  so,"  said  Coulter.  "And  now  that,  you  have  made 
your  determination,  I  will  make  mine.  The  odds  are  desperate, 
so  desperate,  indeed,  that  I  build  my  hope  somewhat  on  that 
very  fact.  Dunbar  knows  my  feebleness,  and  does  not  fear  me. 
I  must  effect  a  surprise.  If  we  can  do  this,  with  the  first  ad 
vantage,  we  will  make  a  rush,  and  club  rifles.  Do  you  go  up 
in  the  dug-out,  and  alone,  while  we  make  a  circuit  by  land.  We 
can  be  all  ready  in  live  minutes,  and  perhaps  we  should  set  out 
at  once." 

"  Right !"  answered  the  preacher;  '•  but  are  you  equal  to  the 
struggle,  Richard  ?" 

The  young  man  upheaved  his  powerful  bulk,  and  leaping  up 
to  the  bough  which  spread  over  him,  grasped  the  extended  limb 
with  a  single  hand,  and  drew  himself  across  it. 

"Good!"  was  the  reply.  "But  you  are  still  stiff.  I  have 
seen  you  do  it  much  more  easily.  Still  you  will  do,  if  you  will 
only  economize  your  breath.  There  is  t»ne  preparation  first  to 
be  made,  Richard.  Call  up  the  men." 


PRAYER    BEFORE   STRIFE.  299 

They  were  summoned  with  a  single,  shrill  whistle,  and  Coul- 
fcr  soon  put  them  in  po»ps<inn  of  the  adventure  tliat  lay  before 
them.  It  needed  neither  argument  nor  entreaty  to  persuade 
them  into  a  declaration  of  readiness  t'"r  the  encounter.  Their 
onthusiasiu  wjy*  grateful  to  their  leader,  whom  they  personally 
loved. 

"  And  n«>w.  my  brethren,"  said  Elijah  Fields,  "I  am  about 
to  leave  you,  and  we  are  all  about  to  engage  in  a  work  of  peril. 
\Ve  know  not  what  u  511  happen.  We  know  not  that  we  shall 
meet  again.  It  is  proper  onlv  that  we  should  confess  our  sins 
to  God,  and  invoke  his  mercy  and  protection.  My  brothers,  let 
us  pray." 

With  these  wurds.  the   party  sank   upon   their  knees,  Rrough 
placing   himself  behind   Coulter.      Fervent    and    simple  was   the 
prayer  of  the  preacher  —  inartificial   but  highly  touching.     Our 
BjMMe  'i'"'s  n«>t  sutler  us  to  record  it,  or  to  describe  the  seen* 
simp'  6    imposing.      The    9ft*    "!    the    rough    men    were 

moistened,  their  hearts  softened,  yet  strengthened.  They 
firm  and  res. .lute  to  meet  the  worst  issues  of  life  and  death,  and, 
embracing  each  of  them  in  turn.  ]»r«>ugh  not  excepted,  Elijah 
Fields  led  the  way  to  the  enemy,  by  embarking  alone  in  the 
canoe,  ('..niter,  with  hi*  party,  soou  followed,  taking  the  route 
through  the  f.>: 

f'HAPTFK      IX. 

IN    the   meantime,  our  captain  of  loyalists  bad   gone   forward 

in    his    projects   with    a    very    free    and    fearh  '•  p.      The 

course  which    be  pursued,  in  the  present  instance,  afford*  one  of 

a  thousand    instances  which  go  to  illustrate  the  pet-feet   rerkless.- 

with  which    the    British    conquerors,  and    their   baser  allies, 

.  the  claims  of  humanity,  where  the  int»'p--ts  the  rights, 

or  the  affections  of  the  whig  inhabitants  of  South  Carolina  M 

concerned.      Though    resolutely  rejected    by    Frederica,  Dunbar 

-eemed  determined   to  attach   no  importance  to  her  refusal, 

but,  despatching  a  me-  •  I   the  village  of  Orangeburg,  he 

brought  thence  one  Nicholas  Yeitrh,  a  Scotch    I'  '--riaii  par- 

bon.  for    the    avoucd    ohje<  iatiug   at    bis  we.'.  !in-    - 

Thfc  parson,  who  was  H  g<«».l   man   enough    JM Tlnp*.  w...    \»t  .- 


300  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

weak  and  timid  one,  wanting  that  courage  which  boldly  flings 
itself  between  the  victim  and  his  tyrant.  He  was  brought  into 
the  Dutchman'*  cottage,  which  Dunbur  now  occupied.  Thither 
also  was  Frederica  brought,  much  against  her  will ;  indeed,  only 
under  the  coercive  restraint  of  a  couple  of  dragoons.  Jlir 
parents  were  neither  of  them  present,  and  the  following  dia 
logue  ensued  between  Dunbar  and  herself,  Veitch  being  the 
only  witness. 

"  Here,  Frederica,"  said  Dunbar,  "  you  see  the  parson.  He 
comes  to  marry  us.  The  consent  of  your  parents  has  1  . •»  n 
already  given,  and  it  is  useless  for  you  any  longer  to  oppose 
your  childish  scruples  to  what  is  now  unavoidable.  This  day. 
1  am  resolved  that  we  are  to  be  made  man  and  wife.  Having 
the  consent  of  your  father  and  mother,  there  is  no  reason  for 
not  having  yours." 

"Where  arc  they?"  was  the  questiou  of  Frederic;!.  Il>  r 
face  was  very  pale,  but  her  lips  were  firm,  and  her  eyes  gazed, 
without  faltering,  into  those  of  her  oppressor. 

"  They  will  be  present  when  the  time  comes.  They  will  be 
present  at  the  ceremony." 

"Then  they  will  never  be  present!"  she  answered  firmly. 

"Beware,  girl,  how  you  provoke  me!  You  little  know  tho 
power  1  have  to  punish  — 

"You  have  no  power  np<>n  niv  voice  or  my  heart." 

"Ha!" 

The    preacher    interposed:     "My    daughter,    be    persuaded. 
The  consent  of  your  parents   should    be  enough    to  incline 
to  Captain  I >unbar.     They  are  surely  the   best  judges  of  what 
is  good  for  their  children." 

"  I  can  not  and  1  will  not  marry  with  Captain  Dunbar  " 

"Beware,  Frederica!"  said  Dunbar,  in  a  voice  studiously 
subdued,  lint  with  great  difficulty  —  tin-  passion  speaking  out  in 
h>  fiery  looks,  and  his  frame  that  trembled  with  its  einotioii.s. 

11  •  lit-ware  T  "    said    Ficderica.      "Of   what  should    1    beware/ 
Your  power?      Your    power   may  kill   me.      It    can    scared 
farther.      Know,  then,  that    1   am   prepared  to  die  sooner  than 
marry  you." 

Though  dreadfully  enraged,  the  manner  of  Dunbar  was  «till 


THK    SK.HT    OK    TKRKOR.  301 

carefully  subdued.     His  words  were   enunciated  in   tones  of  ,1 
laborious  calm,  a^  he  replied  :  — 

"  You  are  mistaken  in  your  notions  of  the  extent  of  my  power 
It  can  reach  where  yon  little  imagine.  But  I  do  not  desire  to 
u>e  it.  I  prefer  that  you  should  give  me  your  hand  without 
restraint  or  coercion." 

•  That,  I  have  told  you,  is  impossible." 
Nay,  it  is  not  impossible." 

'•  Solemnly,  on  my  knees.  I  assure  you  that  never  can  I,  or 
will  I,  while  I  preserve  my  consciousness,  consent  to  be  your  wife." 

The  action  was  suited   to  the  words.     She  sunk  on  her  knees 
lie  spoke,  and  her  hands  were  clasped  and  her  eyes  uplifted, 
a>  if  taking  a  solemn  oath  to  heaven.      Dunbar  rushed  furiously 
toward  her. 

"Girl !"  he  exclaimed,  "  will  you  drive  me  to  madness  I  will 
yon  compel  me  to  do  what  I  would  not?" 

The  preacher  interposed.  The.  manner  of  Dunbar  was  that 
of  a  man  about  to  strike  his  enemy.  Even  Frederica  closed 
her  eye-.  g  the  blow. 

"Let  me  endeavor  to  persuade  the  damsel,  captain,"  was  the 
suggestion  of  Veitch.  Dunbar  turned  away  and  went  toward 
the  window,  leaving  the  field  to  the  preacher.  To  all  the  entrea 
ties  of  the  latter.  Fre.lerica  made  the  same  reply. 

"Though  death  staved  me  in  the  l';u -.-.  1  should  never  marry 
that  man  !" 

"Death    shall   stare    you    in    the    face!"    was  the  fierce  cry  of 
Dunbar.      "  Nay.  yon    shall    behold    him  in   such    terrors  as 
have  never  fancied  yet  ;    but  you  shall    be   brought  to  know  and 
to   submit    to   my   power.      Ho.  there  !      Nr-bitt,   bring    out    the 
,er." 

This  order  nat'irallv  startled  Frederic*.  She  had  continued 
kneeling.  She  now  rose  t«»  her  feet  In  the  same  moment 
I  unbar  turned  to  where  she  stood,  fuJl  of  fearful  expectation. 

-ped  her  by  the  wrist,  and  dragged  her  to  the  window. 
raided  her  head,  ga\e  but  die  glance  at  the  scene  before  her, 
and  fell  back  swooning.  The  cruel  spectacle  which  she  had 
been  made  to  witness,  was  that  of  her  father,  surrounded  by  a 
guard,  and  the  halter  about  his  neck,  waiting  only  the  terrible 
word  from  the  rutlian  in  authority. 


302  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

In  that  sight,  the  unhappy  girl  lost  all  conscimispp.es.  She 
would  have  fallen  upon  the  ground,  but  that  the  hand  of  Dunbar 
still  grasped  her  wrist.  He  now  supported  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Marry  us  at  once,"  he  cried  to  Veitch. 

"  But  she  can't  understand  —  she  can't  answer,"  replied  tho 
priest." 

"  That's  as  it  should  be,"  answered  Dunbar,  with  a  laugh  ; 
"  silence  always  gives  consent  ' 

The  reply  seemed  to  be  satisfactory,  and  Veitch  actually  stood 
forward  to  officiate  in  the  disgraceful  ceremony,  when  a  voice  at 
the  entrance  drew  the  attention  of  the  parties  within.  It  was 
that  of  Elijah  Fields.  How  he  had  made  his  way  to  the  building 
without  arrest  or  interruption  is  only  to  be  accounted  for  by  his 
pacific  progress — his  being  without  weapons,  and  his  well-known 
priestly  character.  It  may  have  been  thought  by  the  troopers, 
knowing  what  was  in  hand,  that  lie  also  had  been  sent  for ;  and 
probably  something  may  be  ascribed  to  the  excitement  of  most 
of  the  parties  about  the  dwelling.  At  all  events,  Fields  reached 
it  without  interruption,  and  the  first  intimation  that  Dunbar  had 
of  his  presence  was  from  his  own  lips. 

"  I  forbid  this  proceeding  in  the  name  and  by  the  authority 
of  God,"  was  the  stem  interruption.  "The  girl  is  already 
married  !" 

CHAPTER     X. 

Li  T  us  now  retrace  nur  steps  and  follow  those  of  Rienard 
Coulter  and  his  party.  We  have  seen  what  lias  been  the 
progress  of  Elijah  Fields.  The  mute  which  ho  pursued  was 
considerably  longer  than  that  of  his  comrades  ;  but  the  differ 
ence  of  time  w;:s  1'ullv  equalized  bv  the  superior  and  embarras 
sing  caution  which  they  were  compelled  t»  excrci.-e.  The  re-m 
was  to  bring  them  to  the  common  centre  at  nearly  the  same 
moment,  though  the  policy  of  Coulter  required  a  different  course 
of  conduct  from  that  of  Fields.  Long  before  he  reached  the 
neighborhood  of  old  Sabb's  farm,  he  had  compelled  his  troopers 
to  dismount.,  and  hide  their  horses  in  the  forest.  They  then 
made  their  way  forward  on  foot.  Richard  Coulter  was  i-xpc: •; 
in  all  the  arts  of  tho  partisan.  Though  eager  to  frrnppl.'  wit, 
his  o.neniy,  and  impatient  to  a-v<-rtain  and  arrest  the  dangers  of 


COtll.TKll's    >TUATK..I 

his  h.vely  wife,  he  yet  made  his  approaches  with  a  proper  cau 
tion.  The  denseness  of  the  fmest  route  ei-.ahled  him  easily  to 
do  so  ;  and,  making  a  considerable  circuit,  he  drew  nigh  to  the 
upper  part  of  the  farmstead,  in  which  stood  the  obscure  out 
house,  which,  when  Dunbar  had  taken  possession  of  the  mail 
ed  to  the  aged  couple.  This  he  found  d. 

he  little  dreamed  for  what  reason,  —  or  in  what  particular  emer 
gency  the  old  Dutchman  stood  at  that  very  moment.  Making 
another  circuit,  he  came  upon  a  copse,  in  which  four  of  Dunbar's 
troopers  were  grouped  together  in  a  state  of  fancied  security. 
Their  horses  were  fastened  in  the  woods,  and  they  lay  upon  the 
ground,  greedily  interested  with  a  pack  of  greasy  cards,  which 
had  gone  through  the  campaign. 

Tin-  favorite  Bailie  of  that  day  was  Qld-SUdgZ,  or  All-Fours, 
or  Si  -  -I  :  by  all  of  which  names  it  was  indiscriminately  known. 
Poker,  and  JJrag,  and  LOO,  and  Monte,  and  Vin»t'«n,  were  then 
unknown  in  that  region.  These  are  all  modern  innovations,  in 
tin-  substitution  of  wliich  good  morals  have  made  few  gains. 
Dragoons,  in  all  countries,  are  notoriously  sad  fellows,  famous  for 
.ring  and  gaming.  Those  of  Dunbar  were  no  exception 
{<>  the  rule.  Our  tory  captain  freely  indulged  them  in  the  prac 
tice.  He  himself  plaved  with  them  when  the  humor  suited. 
The  tour  upon  whom  Coulter  came  were  not  on  duty,  though 
thev  w..re  tlieir  swords.  Their  holsters  lay  with  their  saddles 
across  a  neighboring  lo^,  not  far  oil',  but  not  immediately  within 
reach.  Coulter  BAW  his  opportunity  ;  the  temptation  was  g; 
but  these  were  not  exactly  his  prey  —  not  yet,  at  all  events.  To 
place  one  man,  well  armed  with  rifle  and  pair  of  pistols,  in  a 
situation  to  cover  the  group  at  any  moment,  and  between  them 
and  the  farmstead,  was  his  plan  ;  and  this  done,  he  proceeded 
on  his  way. 

Hi-  policy  was  to  make  his  first  blow  at  the  head  of  the  enemy 
—  his  very  citadel  —  trusting  Muwwhaf  to  the  scattered  condition 
of  the  party,  and  the  natural  cilect  of  such  an  alarm  to  scatter 
them  the  more.  All  tl.'  inaged  with  great  prude, 

with  two  more  of  hi*  men  set  to  watch  over  two  other  groups  of 
tlu«  dragoons,  he  pushed  forward  with  the  remaining  four  until 
he  reached  the  verge  of  the  wood,  jiibt  where  it  opened  upon 
f'ie  settlement.  Hevc  he  hml  a  full  view  of  the  spectacle  — 


304  SOUTHWARD    MO  '. 

own  party  unseen  —  and  the  prospect  was  such  as  to  compel  his 
instant  feeling  of  the  necessity  of  early  action.  It  was  at  the 
moment  which  exhibited  old  Sahb  in  the  hands  of  the  provost, 
his  hands  tied  behind  him,  and  the  rope  about  his  neck.  Clymes, 
the  lieutenant  of  Dunbar,  with  drawn  sword,  was  pacing  between 
the  victim  and  the  house.  The  old  Dutchman  stood  between 
two  subordinates,  waiting  for  the  signal,  while  his  wife,  little 
dreaming  of  the  scene  in  progress,  was  kept  out  of  sight  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden.  Clymes  and  the  provost  were  at  once 
marked  out  for  the  doom  of  the  rifle,  and  the  beads  of  two  select 
shots  were  kept  ready,  and  levelled  at  their  heads.  But  Dunbar 
must  be  the  first  victim  —  and  where  was  he?  Of  the  scene  in 
the  house  Coulter  had  not  yet  any  inkling.  But  suddenly  he 
beheld  Frederica  at  the  window.  He  heard  her  shriek,  and  be 
held  her,  as  he  thought,  drawn  away  from  the  spot.  His  excite 
ment  growing  almost  to  frenzy  at  this  moment,  he  was  about  to 
give  the  signal,  and  follow  the  first  discharge  of  his  rifles  with 
a  rush,  when  suddenly  he  saw  his  associate,  Elijah  Fields,  turn 
the  corner  of  the  house,  and  enter  it  through  the  piazza.  This 
enabled  him  to  pause,  :md  prevented  a  premature  development 
of  his  game.  He  waited  lor  those  events  which  it  is  not  denied 
that  we  shall  see.  Let  us  then  return  to  the  interior. 

We  must  not  forget  the  startling  words  with  which  Elijah 
Fields  interrupted  the  forced  marriage  of  Frederica  with  her 
brutal  persecutor. 

"The  girl  is  already  married." 

Dunbar,  still  supporting  her  no\\-  quite  lifeless  in  his  arms, 
looked  up  at  the  intruder  in  equal  fury  and  surprise. 

"Ha,  villain!"  was  the  exclamation  of  Dunbar,  "you  are 
here?" 

"No  villain,  Captain  Dnnhar.  but  a  servant  of  the  Most  High 
:!" 

"Servant  of  the  devil,  rather!  What  brings  you  here  —  and 
what  is  it  you  x.-ty  .'" 

"  I  say  that  Fredriica  Sahb  is  already  married,  and  her  hus 
band  living!" 

•'  Liar,  that  you  are,  you  shall  swing  for  this  insolence." 

"  1  am  no  liar.  1  say  that  the  girl  is  married,  and  I  witnessed 
the  ceremony." 


in.  i.  305 

41  You   did,  did  you  .'"  ITM    tin-    sj  0  eh    of  Ihinbar,  with  a  tre 
mendous  effort  of  coolness,  laving  down  tin-  still  lifeless  form  of 
Frederica  a    In-  spoke  ;  "and  perhaps  you  performed  the  ceremony 
.  oli,  worthy  servant  of  the  Most  High!" 

••  It  was  my  lot  to  do 

"Grateful  lot!      And  pray  with  whom  did  you  unite  the  dam- 
sol  ?" 

"  With  Richard  Coulter,  captain   in   the   service  of  the  State 
of  South  Carolina." 

Though  undoubtedly  anticipating  this  very  answer,  Dunbar 
echoed  the  annunciation  with  a  fearful  shriek,  as,  drawing  his 
swi.rd  at  the  same  moment,  he  rushed  upon  the  speaker.  But 
his  rage  blinded  him  ;  and  Elijah  Fields  was  one  of  the  e<>< 
of  all  mortals,  particularly  when  greatly  excited.  He  met  the 
assault  of  Punbar  with  a  fearful  buffet  of  his  list,  which  at  once 
felled  the  assailant  ;  hut  he.  rose  in  a  moment,  and  with  a  yell 
of  fury  he,  grappled  with  the  preacher.  They  fell  together,  the 
latter  uppermost,  and  rolling  his  antagonist  into  the  fireplace, 
where  he  was  at  once  half  buried  among  the  emhers,  and  in  a 
cloud  of  ashes.  In  the  struggle,  however.  Ihinbar  contrived  to 
extricate  a  pistol  from  his  belt,  and  to  lire  it.  Fields  struggled 
up  from  his  embrace,  but  a  torrent  of  blood  poured  from  his  side 
as  he  did  >o.  He  rushed  toward  the  window,  grasped  the  sill  in 
his  hands,  then  yielded  his  h«»ld,  and  sunk  down  upon  the  floor, 
losing  his  consciousness  in  an  uproar  of  shots  and  shouts  from 
without.  In  the  next  moment  the  swords  of  Coulter  and  Dun- 
t  ar  were  crossed  over  his  pn  !y.  The  stn  . 

short  and  fierce.      It   had   neaily  terminated   fatally  to   (".'milter, 
on  his  discovering  the    still   insensible   form  of  Frederica.  in    his 
vay.      In  the  endeavor  to  avoid  trampling  upon  her,  he  aft- 
«ii  advantage  to  his  enemy,  vhicli  nothing   prevented   him   fi.-in 
(Mil]  '  the  utnmst  but  the  ashes  with  which  his  eyes  we  re- 

still  half  blinded.      As  it  \\  as,  he  inl.  •  vere  cut  np«>n  the. 

shoulder  of  the  partisan,  which  rendered  his  left  arm  temporarily 

But  the  latter  ler-.verel  himself  instaiitlv.      His  i 
was  in  fearful  violence.      He  r.igrd  like  a  />//-.\r/7,t/-  of  the  North 
men —  absolutely  mocked  the  danger  of  |  .p. .a 
—  thrust  him  back  signing  tl                  !  the  house,  and  lieu  ing  him 
almost    down  with  one    terrible    blu\v  upon    the    bhuulder.  with  a 


30(3  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

mighty  thrust,  immediately  after,  he  absolutely  speared  him 
against  the  wall,  the  weapon  passing  through  his  body,  and  into 
the  logs  behind.  For  a  moment  the  eyes  of  the  two  glared 
deathfully  upon  each  other.  The  sword  of  Dunbar  was  still  up 
lifted,  and  he  seemed  about  to  strike,  when  suddenly  the  arm 
sunk  powerless  —  the  weapon  fell  from  the  nerveless  grasp  — 
the  eyes  became  fixed  and  glassy,  even  while  gazing  with  tiger 
appetite  into  those  of  the  enemy  —  and,  with  a  hoarse  and  stifling 
cry,  the  captain  of  loyalists  fell  forward  upon  his  conqueror, 
snapping,  like  a  wand  of  glass,  the  sword  that  was  still  fastened 
in  his  body. 

XI. 

WE  must  briefly  retrace  our  steps.  We  left  Richard  Coulter 
in  ambush,  having  so  placed  his  little  detachments  as  to  cover 
most  of  the  groups  of  dragoons  —  at  least  such  as  might  be  im 
mediately  troublesome.  It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that 
he  could  restrain  himself  during  the  interval  which  followed  the 
entry  of  Elijah  Fields  into  the  house.  Nothing  but  his  great 
confidence  in  the  courage  and  fidelity  of  the  preacher  could  have 
reconciled  him  to  forbearance,  particularly  as,  at  the  point  which 
he  occupied,  he  could  know  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  with 
in.  Meanwhile,  his  eyes  could  not  fail  to  see  all  the  indignities 
to  which  the  poor  old  Dutchman  was  subjected.  He  heard  his 
groans  and  entreaties. 

"  I  am  a  goot  friend  to  King  Tshorge !  I  was  never  wid  de 
rebels.  Why  would  you  do  me  so  ?  Where  is  de  captaine  ?  I 
have  said  dat  my  darter  shall  be  his  wife.  Go  bring  him  to  me, 
and  let  him  make  me  loose  from  de  rope.  I'm  a  goot  friend  to 
King  Tshorge  !" 

"Good  friend  or  not,"  said  the  brutal  lieutenant,  "you  have 
to  hang  for  it,  I  reckon.  We,  are  better  friends  to  King  George 
than  you.  We  fight  for  him,  and  we  want  grants  of  land  as  well 
us  other  people." 

"  Oh,  mine  Gott !" 

Just  then,  faint  sounds  of  the  scuffle  within  the  house,  reached 
the  ears  of  those  without.  Clymes  betrayed  some  uneasiness; 
and  when  the  sound  of  the  pistol-shot  was  heard,  he  rushed  for 
ward  to  the  dwelling.  But  that  signal  of  the  strife  was  the  aig- 


THE    MF!  307 

nnl  for  Conlter.  Ho  naturally  feared  that  his  comrade  had  been 
shot  down,  and,  in  the  same  instant  his  rifle  pave  tin-  signal  to 
hi*  followers,  wherever  they  had  been  placed  in  ainhush.  Almost 
•multaneoosly  the  sharp  cracks  of  the  fatal  weapon  were  heard 
from  f»«nr  "i  ii\e  sexeral  quarters,  followed  by  two  or  th 
tering  pistol-shots  Coulter's  rifle,  dropped  Clymes,  just  as  he 
was  about  to  ascend  the  steps  of  the  piazza.  A  second  shot 
fn>m  one  of  his  companions  tumbled  the  provost,  having  i"  charge 
old  Sabb.  His  remaining  keeper  let  fall  the  rope  and  fled  in 
terror,  while  the  old  Dutchman,  sinking  to  his  knees,  crawled 
rapidly  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  tree  which  had  been  chosen 
for  his  Callows,  where  he  crouched  closely,  covering1  his  ears 
with  his  hands,  as  it',  by  shutting  out  the  sounds,  he  could  shut 
out  all  danger  from  the  shot.  Jlere  he  IMH  so..n  joined  by 
Brough.  the  African.  The  faithful  slave  bounded  toward  his 
master  the  moment  he  was  released,  and  hugging  him  first  with 
a  most  rugged  embrace,  he  proceeded  to  undo  the  degrading 
halter  from  about  his  neck.  This  done,  he  got  the  old  man  on 
his  feet,  placed  him  still  further  among  the  shelter  of  the  t; 
and  then  hurried  away  to  partake  in  the  struggle,  for  which  he 
had  provided  himself  with  a  grubbing-hoe  and  pistol.  It  is  no 
part  of  our  object  to  follow  and  watch  his  exploits;  nor  do  we 
need  to  report  the  several  results  of  each  ambush  which  had 
been  set.  In  that  where  we  left  the  four  gamblers  bu-v  at  ' 

1C  proceeding  had  been  most  murderous.     One  of  ('mil- 

men  had  been  an  old  scout.      .1  "b   Fisher  fafl    m«ton..i; 
his  stern  deliberation  and  method,      lie  had  not  been  content  to 
pick  hi.>  man,  but  continued  to  revolve  around  the  gambler*  until 
he  could  range   a   couple  of  them,  both  of  whom   fell   under  his 

tire.  Of  the  two  other*,  one  was  shot  down  by  the  com 
panion  of  Fibber.  The  fourth  took  to  his  heels,  but  wa*  over 
taken,  and  brained  with  the  butt  of  the  rille.  The  scouts  thru 
hurried  to  other  parts  of  the  farmstead,  agreeable  to  previous 
arrangement,  where  they  gave  assistance  to  their  fellows.  The 
history,  in  short,  was  one  of  complete  surprise  and  route  —  the 
dragoons  were  not  allowed  to  rally  ;  nine  of  them  were  slain 
outright  —  not  including  the  captain;  and  the,  rest  dispersed,  to 
he  picked  up  at  a  time  of  r  ,  ;.!••.  A'  :'.  .  •  i  •  \\ 

Gouloer's  party  were  asseinbling  at  tbe  dwelling,  Brwuh  hrd 


308  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

succeeded  in  bringing  the  old  couple  together.  Very  pitiful  and 
touching  was  the  spectacle  of  these  two,  embracing  with  groans, 
tears,  and  ejaculations  —  scarcely  yet  assured  of  their  escape 
from  the  hands  of  their  hateful  tyrant. 

But  our  attention  is  required  within  the  dwelling.  Rapidly 
extricating  himself  from  the  body  of  the  loyalist  captain,  Coulter 
naturally  turned  to  look  for  Frederica.  She  was  just  recover 
ing  from  her  swoon.  She  had  fortunately  been  spared  the  sight 
of  the  conflict,  although  she  continued  long  afterward  to  assert 
that  she  had  been  conscious  of  it  all,  though  she  had  not  been 
able  to  move  a  limb,  or  give  utterance  to  a  single  cry.  Her 
eyes  opened  with  a  wild  stare  upon  her  husband,  who  stooped 
fondly  to  her  embrace.  She  knew  him  instantly  —  called  his 
name  but  once,  but  that  with  joyful  accents,  and  again  fainted. 
Her  faculties  had  received  a  terrible  shock.  Coulter  himself 
felt  like  fainting.  The  pain  of  his  wounded  arm  was  great,  and 
he  had  lost  a  good  deal  of  blood.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  long 
be  certain  of  himself,  and  putting  the  bugle  to  his  lips,  he  sounded 
three  times  with  all  his  vigor.  As  lie  did  so,  he  became  con 
scious  of  a  movement  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  Turning  in 
this  direction,  he  beheld,  crouching  into  the  smallest  possible 
compass,  the  preacher,  Veitch.  The  miserable  wretch  was  in  a 
state  of  complete  stupor  from  his  fright. 

"Bring  water!"  said  Coulter.  But  the  fellow  neither  stirred 
uor  spoke.  He  clearly  did  not  comprehend.  In  the  next  mo 
ment,  however,  tin;  faithful  Brough  made  his  appearance.  His 
ciics  were  those  of  joy  and  exultation,  dampened,  however,  ab 
he  beheld  the  condition  of  his  young  mistress. 

"  Fear  nothing,  Brough,  she  is  not  hurt  —  she  has  only  fainted. 
But  run  for  your  old  mistress.  Run,  old  boy,  and  bring  water 
while  you're  aliont  it.  Run  !" 

"  Hut  you'  arm,  Mas*  Dick  — he.  da  bleed!     You  hu't  ?" 

"Yes,  a  little  —  away  !" 

Brough  was  gone ;  and,  with  a  strange  sickness  of  fear,  Coul 
ter  turned  to  the  spot  where  Elijah  Fields  lay,  to  all  appearance, 
dead.  But  he  still  lived.  Coulter  tore  away  his  clothes,  which 
were  saturated  and  already  stiff  with  blood,  and  discovered  th^i 
1  ullet-wound  in  his  left  side,  well-directed,  and  ranging  clear 
igh  the  body.  It  needed  no  second  glance  to  ece  that  th« 


DEATH   <>r  THK  TKKACHER.  309 

shot  was  mortal  ;  and  while  Coulter  was  examining  it,  the  good 
preacher  opened  his  eyes.  They  were  full  of  intelligence,  and 
a  pleasant  smile  was  upon  his  lips. 

"You  have  seen,  Richard;   tin  wound  is  fatal.      I  had  a  pre 
sentiment,  when  we    parted    this   morning,  that   such  was   to  be 
the   case.      But  I  complain  not.     Some  victim   perhaps  was  no- 
ry,  and  I  am  n«»t  unwilling.      But  Frederic 

"She  lives!      She  is  here:   unhurt  hut  suffering.'' 

-All !   that  monster!" 

By  this  time  the  old  couple  made  their  appearance,  and  Fred- 
erica  was  at  «»nce  removed  to  her  own  chamher.  A  few  moments 
tendance  sufficed  to  revive  her,  and  then,  as  if  tearing  that  she 
had  not  heard  the  tiuth  in  regard  to  Coulter,  she  insisted  on 
going  where  he  was.  Meantime,  Elijah  Fields  had  been  re 
moved  to  an  adjoining  apartment.  He  did  not  seem  to  suffer. 
In  the  mortal  nature  of  his  hurt,  his  sensibilities  seemed  to  be 
great  1\  levelled.  But  his  mind  was  calm  and  firm.  lie  knew 
all  around  him.  His  ga/.e  was  fondly  shared  between  the  young 
c«»uple  whom  he  had  so  lately  united. 

ch  other,"  he  said  to  them  ;  "  h.ve  each  other  —  and 
forget  not  me.  I  am  leaving  you — leaving  you  fast.  It  is  pre- 
sumpti"ii,  perhaps  to  say  that  one  does  not  fear  to  die  —  but  I 
am  resigned.  I  have  taken  life  —  always  in  self-defence  —  still 
I  have  taken  life  \  1  would  that  I  had  never  done  so.  That 
makes  me  doubt.  I  feel  the  blood  upon  my  head.  My  hope  is 
in  the  Lord  ,le>us.  May  his  blood  atone  for  that  which  I  have 

shed  ;•• 

IT     BJ4N  <d»>ed.      Hi-  lips  moved,  as  it  were,  in  silent  pra\  er. 

M  he    looked  out    upon    the    two.  who    hung  with    streaming 

above    him.      "  K;--    me.  Richard  —  and    y>\\.  I'rederica — 

dear    children  —  1    have    loved  you    always,      (iod    be  with    \  »\\ 

—  and  —  me  I"       He  was  ^ilent. 

Our  Story  heie  is  ended.  We  need  not  follow  Richard  Coti, 
ter  through  the  remaining  vicissitudes  of  the  war.  Enough  that 
he  continued  to  distinguish  himself,  rising  to  the  rank  of  major 
in  the  service  of  the  state.  With  the  return  of  p,  n  e,  he  re 
moved  to  the  farmhouse  of  his  wife'.-  parents.  Hi.'  r  him,  in 
all  probability,  tip  I  ->uld  have  been  forfeited  ,  and  the 

a   love  which  the  good  old   Dutchman  pvpAMMJ   for  King 


310  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

George  might  have  led  to  the  transfer  of  his  grant  to  some  one 
less  devoted  to  the  house  of  Hanover.  It  happened,  only  a  few 
months  after  the  evacuation  of  Charleston  by  the  British,  that 
Felix  Long,  one  of  the  commissioners,  was  again  on  a  visit  to 
Orangeburg.  It  was  at  the  village,  and  a  considerable  number 
of  persons  had  collected.  Among  them  was  old  Frederick  Sabb 
and  Major  Coulter.  Long  approached  the  old  man,  and,  after 
the  first  salutation,  said  to  him — "Well,  Frederick,  have  we 
any  late  news  from  goot  King  Tshorge  ?"  The  old  Dutchman 
started  as  if  he  had  trodden  upon  an  adder  —  gave  a  hasty 
glance  of  indignation  to  the  interrogator,  and  turned  away  ex 
claiming — "  D — n  King  Tshorge  !  I  don't  care  dough  I  nebber 
more  hears  de  name  agen  !" 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

GLIMl'SFS    Al.o.\<;    SHoKF.    OK    THK    <H.|»    NORTH    STATE. 

IF  yon  liave  ever,  in  a  past  period  of  your  life,  been  a  coastwise 
vovager,  south  or  north,  along  our  Atlantic  Chop's  and  making 
your  way,  after  an  antique  t'asliion,  in  one  of  those  good  old  slow- 
and-easy  coaches,  called  packet  ship*.,  brigs,  or  schooners,  you 
niMft  a  thousand  times  have  bewailed  the  eternal  prospect,  the 
endle>s  length  of  wa»te  and  unprofitable  shore,  which  the  old 
North  State  continued  to  untold  to  your  weary  e\  <-.  c:  e.-ping 
forward  at  a  snail's  pace  under  the  intluence  of  contrary  winds, 
or  no  winds  at  all,  with  every  now  and  then  the  necessity 

j  (iLout,  lest  the  nose  of  your  vessel  —  having  thereto  a  strong 
native  tendency  —  should  thrust  itself  into  une  of  JYleg  lYrkin's 
tar  harrels.  clo-e  hy  1'ainlico,  or,  worse  still,  into  the  Ugly  Seylla 
and  Charyhdis,  the  >hip-traps  <»f  Cape  Hatteras.  l-'n.ni  rise  of 
inorn  to  -..-t  of  sun,  still  the  same  va-ue,  taint,  monotonous  out 
line.  Y"ii  ppQ  t"  \  our  ht-rth  at  night,  with  a  half-smothered  cm 
the  enormous  1-ulk  of  hody  which  the  good  old  state  protrudes 
along  your  path.  You  rise  in  the  morning  and  ask,  with  the  smal 
lest  possihle  expectation,  of  the  steward  — 

'•  Where  are  \ve  now  ?"  and  still  the  same  lamentable  an>wer 
"  fur  North  Carolina,  sir." 

Yon  |  k.  ami  there,  precisely  as  she  lay  last  niglit.  sin- 

'Ijis  morning  —  a  slugg'^h  monster  drowsing  on  the  deep,  like- 
that  to  the  hack  of  which  Sinhad  had  recourse,  dreaming  it  a 
cond'ortalde  i-d,  :,iit  habitation. 


"  Hi  'lint  jtwiiu  tin-  nrt-nii 

The  annoyance  u  a^  imnieaMirable,  and,  doubtless,  to  thi>  ferling 
maybe  ascribed  much  of  that  sharp  sarcasm  to  which,  in  it- 
son,  the  good  old  North  State  h  •  xp.-sed  ;    she  neverthe 

less.  all  tho  while,  showing  herself  very  scornfully  indifferent  to 


312  j-ouTHw.uin  HO: 


that  vulgar  thing,  called,  very  ridiculously,  "  public  opinion." 
Angry  travellers  were  apt  to  assume  an  intellectual  sluggishness 
on  the  part  of  her  people  corresponding  to  that  which  her  vast 
outline  along  the  sea  seemed  to  indicate  to  the  voyager.  That 
she  made  no  great  fuss  in  the  body  politic  —  that  she  kept  her 
self  out  of  hot  water  of  all  kinds,  and,  in  proportion  to  the  ex 
hibition  of  morbid  energies  on  the  part  of  her  neighbors,  seemed 
all  the  more  resolute  to  subdue  her  own  —  these  were  assumed 
as  proofs  of  a  settled  mental  atrophy,  which  only  made  her 
enormous  bulk  of  body  show  more  offensively  in  the  eyes  of  the 
impatient  traveller.  He  visited  upon  her  genius  the  very  vast- 
ness  of  her  dimensions,  and  fancied  that  her  soul  was  small,  sim 
ply  because  her  physique  was  gigantic. 

"And,  by  the  way,"  answered  my  Gothamite,  "a  very  rea 
sonable  assumption  according  to  human  experience." 

"True  enough,"  interposed  our  orator  with  a  leer,  "  as  in 
stanced  in  your  own  state  of  Gotham." 

Duyckman  felt  uneasy  and  looked  savage  for  a  moment.  The 
Alabamian  continued. 

"  What  was  felt  of  tedious,  passing  the  shores  of  the  old  North 
State,  was  not  a  whit  lessened  when  you  took  the  land  route, 
seeking  to  shorten  the  progress  by  the  help  of  railroads  and 
locomotives.  A  more  dreary  region  than  the  track  from  Wil 
mington  to  Portsmouth  is  hardly  to  be  found  anywhere.  The 
region  through  South  Carolina,  from  Augusta  to  Charleston,  is 
bad  enough.  That  through  her  ancient  sister  is  a  fraction 
worse." 

"  Something  is  due  to  our  own  impatience.  Our  thoughts  do 
not  keep  progress  with  our  eyes.  Were  travellers  observers, 
which  they  rarely  are,  and  still  less  thinkers  upon  what  they  ob 
serve,  they  would  make  many  more  grateful  discoveries  along 
the,  route  than  they  do.  lie  who  goes  from  Dan  to  Beerslu-b.-i 
rind  reports  nothing  to  he  seen,  is  simply  an  animal  that  has  n<>t 
duly  acquired  the  use  of  his  eyes." 

"  My  friend,"   quoth  the  Alabamian  with   pvrn  ryes  —  "your 
have  been  indulgent.      I   have  tried  as  inm-h  as  possible  to 
see  something  along  your  Carolina  routes,  hut  to  little  profit." 

"  Perhaps,"  put  in  a  sharp,  peppery,  little  fellow,  whom  wo 
afterward  ascertained  to  be  from  the  old  North  State  himself  — 


IN!  313 

"  perhaps  y"'i  did  *U  your  seeing  through  those  ton-green  spec 
tacles." 

••  1  surely  have  done  so  al\v;iys  when  passing  through  North 
i  lina."  answered  the  other  quietly.  "  It  was  needful  to  give, 
the  trees  shrubs,  fields  and  flowers,  something  of  a  natural  com- 
jilexi-'ii.  N"\\  .  1  will  report  briefly  the  result  of  several  prog- 
:ii  that  state,  during  the.  growing  season.  The 
le  count  rv.  so  far  as  its  agriculture  is  concerned,  seemed 
wretchedly  unpromising.  The  ghmp>e  liere  and  there  nf  a  to] 
rrable  farm.  was  only  an  oasis  in  tin-  desert,  which  made  the  rest 
of  the  country  more  and  more  distressing  to  the  eye.  The  corn 
fields  were  few,  1  could  have  covered  half  of  them  with  a  table 
cloth,  and  the  crops  raised  seem  all  defined  for  the  marke* 
Laputa." 

"Laputa?      Where's  that.  1  wonder?"  (juoth  North  Carolina. 

"Somewhere  north  of  Brobdignag,  1  believe,  and  west  of  the 

tropics,  between   the   equator  and  the    Fro/en  sea,  and  crossed 

by  the  central  fires  of  the  Kquinox,  which    enables   the  people 

to  raise  potatoes   and   barley  with   equal   facility,  but  prevents 

them  from  growing  corn.     This  commodity,  of  which  they  are 

'••nately  fond,  eating  an  ear  at  a  mouthful,  and  chewing  the 

at  their  leisure,  is  brought  to  them  only  once  a  year  by  one 

Cnptain  (julliver,  a  native  of  Cape  Cod,  the  only  known  trader 

between  Laputa  and  North  Carolina.      I  should  not  be  surprised 

if  he  is  even  now  taking  in  a  cargo  at  Wilmington." 

"  I  never  heard  of  the  man,  and  I  reckon  I  know  all  the  peo 
ple  that  trade  to  Wilmington,  captains  and  ships.  .Just  say  now, 
it'  y  \\  ran  remember,  what's  the  v«-».d  railed  that  he  n;, 

"  The  Long  How."  wa>  the  quiet  and  immediate  answer. 
is   a   great    craft    for   shallow  waters.    She  certainly   does  trade 
with  North  Carolina  somewhere  —  are  you  sure  that  you  remem 
ber  all  the  names  of  the  'Mat   ply  to  y.-ur  p« 

"  K\  ery  one  of  them  .'" 

"You!  mo>t  wonderful  memory,  my  friend.  —  But  pas 

sing  from  the  cornfields  of  your  state,  I  am  sorry  to  Bay  that  I 
can  say  as  little  for  its  habitation-,.  The  dwellings  weie  all  of 
the  rudest  construction,  and  signs  of  gardening,  or  culture  of  any 
kind,  were  as  rare,  almost,  as  you  will  find  them  along  the  waste 
places  of  the  Tigris  and  the  '  U  >Al  t'-r  fruit,  the 

11 


314  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

and  apples  offered  us  along  the  route  were  such  as  nature  seemed 
to  have  designed  for  the  better  encouragement  of  Cholera, — a 
sort  of  bounty  offered  for  bile,  indigestion,  dyspepsia  and  riled 


"  But  that's  only  along  the  railroad  route/'  said  our  little 
North  Carolina  man,  "  and  who  ever  expects  to  see  a  decent 
country  along  a  railroad  route  in  any  agricultural  region  ?" 

Another  party  came  to  the  succor  of  the  North-Carolinian 
with  whom  oui  bilious  orator  was  evidently  disposed  to  amuse 
himself. 

"  He  is  right.  You  will  form  a  very  erroneous  notion  of  this 
truly  valuable  state  if  you  assume  its  general  character  from 
what  you  see  along  the  railroad  route.  North  Carolina,  is  even 
now,  in  many  respects,  one  of  the  most  prosperous  of  all  the 
states.  She  lacks  nothing  but  population  to  exhibit  incomparable 
resources,  of  vegetable  and  mineral  treasure,  such  as  in  future 
days  shall  make  us  utterly  forgetful  of  California.  Penetrate 
the  interior  even  now,  and  you  will  be  rewarded  in  a  thousand 
] daces  by  the  beauties  of  a  careful  cultivation,  the  sweets  of  a 
mild  and  graceful  society,  and  the  comforts  of  a  condition  to 
which  want  and  care  are  strangers,  and  where  the  real  misfortune 
is  that  the  means  of  life  are  so  easily  and  abundantly  found. 
North  Carolina  has  suffered  a  greater  drain  upon  her  population, 
in  emigration  to  the  Southwest,  than  probably  any  of  her  At 
lantic  sisters.  How  often  have  I  met,  twenty  years  ago,  her 
poor  wayfarers  —  'from  Tar  River  or  thar'  abouts,'  trudging 
on  by  the  side  of  their  little  wagons,  from  which  the  great  eyes 
of  a  wilderness  of  young  ones  were  peeping  out,  thick  as  tho 
dogwood  blossoms  in  the  spring-time.  The  surplus  population — 
the  natural  increase  of  this  state,  and  that  of  South  Carolina 
and  Virginia  —  have  thus  for  thirty  years  or  more  been  carried 
off  to  the  unrestoring  AVest ;  and  it  is  only  within  the  last  seven 
that  the  torrent  seems  to  be  measurably  stayed.  The  pros 
perity  of  these  staVs  depends  in  great  degree  upon  the  arrest 
of  this  outflow; — since  all  the  improvements  ever  ellrrted  in  a 
state  —  all  of  its  newer  devel"pinents  of  resource  —  are  only  to 
be  made  by  its  own  surplus,  or  natural  increase,  under  the  stim 
ulus  of  necessities,  the  result  of  a  more  crowded  condition,  and  a 
closer  competition  in  the  fields  of  labor.  That  portion  of  a  pop- 


THK    ALABAMA    QUIZ.  31G 

illation  which  ha>  reached  ti  «•  agr  of  forty  seldom  achieve  any 
nrw  development  of  the  resources  of  a  country.  To  hold  their 
own  —  to  he  what  they  have  been  and  keej>  as  tliey  are,  —  is 
all  that  can  reasonably  he  expected  at  their  hands.  But  they 
are  d«>ing  much  more  than  this.  As  a  state,  and  as  communities, 
thev  are  making  large  general  improvements,  and  as  individuals, 
they  are  rising  equally  in  education  and  in  prosperity." 

"Glad  to  hear  it,  but  take  leave  to  douht,"  responded  the 
man  of  hile.  "  You  are  evidently  an  enthusiast,  my  friend  ;  a 
word  in  your  ear — " 

Here  he  slid  up  to  the  previous  speaker,  looked  him  slyly  un 
der  his  green  spectacles,  gave  him  a  nudge  in  his  side,  and 
whispered  :  — 

"  Don't  I  know  Rip  Van  Winkle  as  well  as  you  or  anybody 
but  don't  you  see  that  this  little  fellow  don't  know  me.  We'll 
have  some  fun  out  of  him.  He  has  a  large  capital  of  patriotism 
out  of  which  we  shall  manufacture  many  a  broad  grin,  such  as 
would  do  no  discredit  to  a  Washington  politician.  Listen  now, 
while  I  touch  him  under  his  diaphragm. —  It's  something  of  a 
b«  of  words,"  lie  resumed  aloud,  "to  be  discussing  North 
Carolina.  But — one  question.  Have  you  ever  been  to  Smith- 
ville  ?  If  you  want  to  know  something  of  her,  go  to  Smithville. 
We  "iice  put  into  that  port,  somewhat  in  distress,  making  the 
voyage  from  Charleston  to  New  York  in  one  of  those  cockle 
shells  which  Pennoyer  got  up  to  run  between  the  two  places. 
She  \\as  the  Davy  Brown  1  think.  She  had  very  nearly  car 
ried  me  to  Daw  Jones'.  It  is  a  God's  mercy  that  these  miser 
able  little  mantraps  had  not  gulfed  their  hundreds  as  did  the 
•Home.'  Well,  we  put  into  Smithville  —  a  gale  blowing  on 
deck,  and  fifty  children  squalling  in  the  cabin.  A  few  of  us  got 
to  shore,  counting  on  an  «\  >t« T  supper.  We  met  a  fellow  se\en 
feet  high,  with  his  back  against  a  bank  nf  sand  that  kept  oft' the 
wind,  \\hih-  the  fragment  of  an  old  cutter's  deck,  hanging 
the  bank,  covered  him  from  tin-  rain — all  except  drippings  and 
h-akage. —  Tin-re  was  the  bottom  of  an  old  turpei.tine  tub  beside 
him  from  which  he  detached  occasional  fragments  of  gum  to 
gnaw  upon.  We  questioned  him  about  oysters. 

•• '  Reckon  it's  hard  to  find  'em  now.' 

"  '  Why  r 


SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

" '  Why,  you  see,  we've  done  cleaned  off  all  a  'top.  and  them 
down  low  in  the  water's  mighty  hard  to  come  at.  Don't  get 
much  oysters  at  Smithville  now.  Reckon  there  mought  have 
been  a  right  smart  chance  of  'cm  long  time  ago  —  'bout  the 
Revolution.' 

" '  Well,  do  you  think  we  can  get  any  broiled  chickens  any 
where  V 

"  '  Chickens  don't  do  so  well  at  Smithville.  I'm  thinking  they 
drink  too  much  of  the  salt  water,  and  the  gravel's  too  coarse  for 
'em,  but  they  die  off  mighty  soon,  and  there's  no  cure  for  it.' 

"'Eggs?' 

" '  Well  now,  as  for  eggs,  somehow  the  hens  don't  lay  as  they 
used  to.  Folks  say  that  there's  a  sort  of  happidemic  among  the 
poultry  of  all  kinds.  They  don't  thrive  no  more  in  Smithville.' 

"  '  And  what  have  you  got  in  Smithville  V 

11 '  I  reckon  there's  pretty  much  all  the  Smiths  here  that  was 
here  at  the  beginning.  Old  granny  Pressman  Smith  lives  thar 
in  that  rether  old  house  that  looks  a'most  as  if  it  was  guine  to 
fall.  'Lijah  Smith  keeps  opposite.  He  had  the  grocery,  but 
he's  pretty  much  sold  out  —  though  they  do  say  there's  a 
schooner  expected  mighty  soon  with  some  codfish  and  p'taters 
for  him,  from  down  East.  Rice  Smith  owns  that  'ere  flat,  you 
sees  thar'  with  its  side  stove;  and  the  old  windmill  yander  with 
the  fans  gone  b'longs  to  Jackson  W.  Smith,  the  lawyer.  He's 
pretty  much  broke  up  I  hear,  by  buying  a  gold  mine  somewhere 
in  the  South.  I'm  a  Smith  myself — my  name's  Fergus  Smith, 
but  I'm  the  poorest  of  the  family.  I  don't  own  nothing,  no 
how,  and  never  did.' 

"  Now  there's  a  chronicle,"  said  our  orator.  "Was  there  ever 
such  a  complete  picture  of  all  sorts  of  debris  and  ruin  ?" 

"  But  Smithville  is  not  North  Carolina,"  was  the  reply  of  our 
little  red-faced  native,  who  seemed  particularly  to  resent  this 
portraiture. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is,"  was  the  reply  of  the  orator,  coolly  spoken, 
and  without  seeming  to  heed  the  evident  ruffling  of  the  young 
one's  plumage.  "  I  have  seen  somewhere,"  he  continued,  "  a 
picture  of  the  old  North  State,  of  which  I  remember  just  the 
heads.  Doubtless  there  is  some  exaggeration  in  it,  but  on  the 
whole  the  thing  is  true.  It  is  true  in  generals  if  not  details— 


HOB    OF    NUKTll    CAKoLINA. 

::it  of  tin-  whole,  it'  regardless  of  all  occasional  ex 
ceptions.  We  have  luul  a  picture  of  the  Virginian.  We  cau 
not  object  to  one  of  the  North-Carolinian,  and  he  who  objects  to 
it  as  not  true,  will  he  wise  enough  to  regard  it  as  a  jest,  not 
wholly  without  hotly  in  the  fact." 

14  Oh,  you're  only  a-jesting,  then  1" 

"Jesting,  sir!  I  never  jest.  I  am  as  serious  as  the  Dutch 
Momus,  and  I  never  suffer  myself  to  smile  except  in  a  thunder 
storm." 

••  And  what  make-  y.-u  lOulc  then  .'" 

"  To  hear  so  much  ado  about  nothing." 

•    You're  a  mighty  strange  person,  I'm  a  thinking." 

«•  Ah  !  that's  a  practice,  my  young  friend,  you  should  not  in 
dulge  in.  Don't  go  out  of  your  way,  at  any  time,  in  search 
after  vain  things." 

••  Y..u  don't  call  thinking  a  vain  thing?" 

"  By  no  means  —  only  you  search  after  it." 

"  I  don't  rightly  understand  you." 

"  The  fault,  I  suspect,  is  rather  yours  than  mine  ;  and  I  don't 
see  how  we're  to  amend  it.  I  must  leave  you  to  your  unassisted 
efforts;  and,  if  you  will  suffer  me,  I  will  resume  my  portrait  of 
the  old  North  State." 

••  That's  right !  Go  ahead,  old  Bile  !"  cried  the  Texan,  irrev 
erently.  The  Alabamian  glanced  at  him  from  under  his  green 

"  Have  you  been  eating  cabbage,  my  friend  /" 

"  Cabbage,  no  !" 

••  It  must  be  the  cocktails  then  !  Either  MS  ear  off  from  cock 
tails  altogether,  Texas,  or  go  and  get  yourself  another.  Your 
complexion  is  rather  the  WMI-M*  for  wear." 

••  (  )h  I  (1 — 11  the  complexion,"  CT*  .  "  and  bree/e  away 

with  what  you've  pit.      Hurrah  for  nothing  —  p    aiie  id  !" 

"  Thank  you  for  permission,"  was  the  c 1  reply.    "  And  now, 

gentlemen,  for  our  unknown  chronicler  of  the  virtues  of  the  oil 
North  State.      1  may  n.-t   give   I  I    language  always,  but 

you  will  excuse  my  involuntary  fault  :  — 

"'The    genius    of   Ninth   Carolina,1  !i-aily  mas 

culine.     He  has  no  feminine  refinements.      i'  >u   will   not  n< 
him  of  unnecessary  or  enfeebling  •  :•  ,  and,  one  merit,  h»« 


318 


SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 


is  totally  free  from  affectation.  You  have  strong  smells  of  him 
before  you  approach  his  shores,  but  these  occasion  no  concern 
in — ' " 

Here,  however,  a  be  .  rang,  which  seemed  to  have  some  pecu 
liar  meaning  in  it.  The  Texan  curled  himself  up  only  to  stretch 
away  for  the  cabin.  His  example  was  about  to  be  followed  by 
the  rest,  and  our  orator  seeing  this,  judiciously  proposed  that  we 
should  for  the  present  forbear  the  discussion  of  the  old  North 
State  for  the  more  grateful  discussion  of  the  supper  — a  proposi 
tion  which  was  carried  nem.  con.  We  adjourned  to  meet  again 


CH  A  I'TKR  XV. 

MORE  OF  THK  <;l.\ll  S  OF  THK  «U.H  NORTH  STATH. 

"WK  must  not  forget  our  pledges,"  said  the  sea-green  ora 
tor,  as  we  seated  ourselves  in  a  group  nrar  the  wheel,  after  sup- 
rfgmrt  all  lighted.  "And,  if  not  too  full  of  hotter  stuff,  my 
trim.!-.  I  propose  t<>  give  you  tho  chronicle  of  the  old  North  State, 
of  which  I  have  spoken.  As  I  have  mentioned  already,  tho 
matter  is  not  my  own.  I  gathered  it  from  the  correspondence 
of  a  traveller  in  some  of  the  newspapers.  It  seemed  so  truth 
ful,  so  appropriate,  and  confirmed  so  admirahly  my  own  experi 
ence,  that  I  memori/ed  it  without  any  effort." 

-.•nti:iir.  the  Alahamian  proceeded  with  his  narra 
tive.  \ery  mr.eh  a-  follows  :  — 

"'The    -enius    of    tho    old    North    State,'    said    ho,   'is   deci- 
,    mascMiliiie.      With  a  larg«'  physical   devolopmont,  ho   is   as 
rious  of  his  strength  as  totally  indifferent  to  its  QM&     Indif 
ference  is  his  virtue.     He  would   he   as  little  interested  if  the 
(s  which  he  >'ave  forth  W.M-.-   C-IM^HO   instead   of  turpentine, 
stands  MI-  ]\r<,  an  enormous  wa-te  of  manhoo.l.  looking 
out  upon   the  Atlantic.      H!^    f-.rm,  though    hulky.  is   angular  — 
one  shoulder  rather  h'.-her  than  the  other,  and   one  l,-^  standing 
awkwardlv    at    ease.       His    hreeches.   you    perceive,    are    of    the 
most    antique    fa>hion  —  equally    short    and    tiirht.      He    ha- 
dently  onturown  them,  hut    the    evidence   is   not  yet  appaientto 
his  own  mind.      Hi^    meditations   ha\  I        '  CXmAueted  him  to 

p..;nt,  where    the   :  ;iii^  hiuixdf  with  a  hot 

ter  tit.  a  more  l>ec«,nn'n^  cut,  and  a  thoroughly  new  pair,  C 
upon  him  with  the  force  ..('  -onio  sudden  sujiernatural  conviction. 
"SVhen  they  do,  he  will  receive  Mich  a  sh.-ck  as  will  cover  him 
with  porspiranoii  enough  for  a  thousand  years.  He  stands  n"W, 
if  you  helieve  me.  in  pretty  nearly  the  same  attitude  which  he 
maintained  when  they  wore  running  the  State  Lino  between  him 


B20  SOUTHWARD    H<>! 

and  his  northern  brother  (Virginia)  to  the  great  merriment,  and 
the  monstrous  guffawing  of  the.  latter,  lie  carries  still  the  same 
earthen  pipe,  of  mammoth  dimensions,  in  his  jaws  ;  and  you 
may  see  him,  any  day,  in  a  fog  of  his  own  making,  with  one  hip 
resting  against  a  barrel  of  tar,  and  with  his  nose  half  buried  in 
a  fumigator  of  turpentine.  He  is  the  very  model  of  that  sort 
i-f  constancy  which  may  at  least  boast  of  a  certain  impregnable- 
ness.  His  taste*  and  temper  undergo  no  changes,  and  are  what 
they  have  been  from  the  beginning.  The  shocks  of  the  world 
do  not  disturb  his  gravity.  He  lets  its  great  locomotives  pass 
by,  hurrying  his  neighbor  through  existence,  and  congratulates 
himself  that  no  one  can  force  him  into  the  car  against  his  will. 
lie  is  content  to  be  the  genius  of  tar  and  turpentine  only.  His 
native  modesty  is  quite  too  great  to  suffer  him  to  pretend  to  any 
thing  better. 

'"The  vulgar  notion  is  that  this  is  due  wholly  to  his  lack  of 
energy.  But  I  am  clear  that  it  is  to  be  ascribed  altogether  to  his 
excessive  modesty.  He  asserts  no  pretensions  at  all  —  he  dis 
claims  most  of  those  which  are  asserted  for  him.  Some  ambi 
tious  members  of  his  household  have  claimed  for  him  the  first 
revolutionary  movements,  and  the  proper  authorship  of  the  Dec 
laration  of  Independence.  But  his  deportment  has  been  that 
of  one  who  says,  "  What  matter  ?  I  did  it,  or  I  did  not !  The 
thing  is  done  !  Enough  !  Let  us  have  no  botheration." 

"  'Do  you  ask  what  he  does,  and  what  he  is?  You  have  the 
answer  in  a  nutshell.  He  is  no  merchant,  no  politician,  no  ora 
tor  ;  but  a  small  planter,  and  a  poor  farmer — and  his  manufac 
tures  are  wholly  aromatic  and  spiritual.  They  consist  in  tur 
pentine  onlv,  and  his  modesty  suffers  him  to  make  no  brag  even 
of  this.  His  farm  yields  him  little  more  than  peas  and  pump 
kins.  His  corn  will  not  match  with  the  Virginian's,  and  that 
is  by  no  means  a  miracle.  1  have  seen  a  clump  of  sunflowers 
growing  near  his  entrance,  and  pokeberries  and  palma-christi 
are  agreeable  varieties  in  his  shrubberies.  Of  groundnuts  he 
raises  enough  to  last  the  children  a  month  at  Christmas,  and 
save  enough  f<>r  next  year's  acre.  His  pumpkins  arc  of  pretty 
good  size,  though  1  have  not  seen  them  often,  and  think  they 
nr<-  apt  to  rot  before  he  can  gather  them.  His  cabbage  invaria 
bly  turns  out  a  collard,  from  which  be  so  constantly  strips  the 


SHIPPING    OF   THE   OLD    NORTH    STATE.  821 

nnder  leaves  that  the  denuded  vegetable  grows  finally  to  be  Al 
most  as  tall  as  himself.  His  cotton  crops  are  exceedingly  small 

—  so  short  in  some  seasons  as  not  to   permit  the  good  wife  to 
make  more  than  short  hose  for  herself  and  little  ones.     His  his 
torian  is  Shocco  Jones.' " 

44  Where  the.  d — 1  is  Shocco  Jones  now  ?"  was  the  in 
quiry  of  the  little  red-faced  native,  who  tried  to  appear  very 
indifferent  to  all  that  the  orator  was  saying.  "  He  wrote  well, 
that  Jones.  His  defence  of  North  Carolina  against  Tom  Jeffer- 
*on  was  the  very  thing,  and  I  have  seen  some  of  his  sketches 
of  the  old  State  that  were  a  shine  above  Irving's." 

41  No  donbt !  no  doubt !  Jones  and  Smith  have  possibly  gone 
on  a  visit  to  their  cousin  German,  Thompson.  To  proceed:  — 

"  '  His  orators  are  Stanley  and  Clingrnan.  who  are  by  no 
means  better  than  Webster  and  Calhoun  —  and  his  shipping 
consists  of  the  "  Mary  and  Sally,"  and  "  Polly  Hopkins "  ' 

44  He  must  have  others,  for  I  saw  a  wreck  at  Smithville  in 
1835,  on  the  stern  of  which  I  read  4  Still-Water.'  " 

44  She  is  there  still,"  said  the  orator,  "and  still-water  at  that. 
She  was  beached  in  1824  —  the  '  Sleeping  Beauty'  taking  her 
place,  between  Squam  Island,  Duck's  Inlet,  Old  Flats,  and 
Smithfield,  till,  lingering  too  long  in  the  river,  the  tide  fell  and 
left  her  on  the  Hognose  Bank,  where  her  beauty  is  somewhat 
on  the  wane.  But  to  proceed  with  our  authority — " 

44  Your  authority  is  an  abominable  falsehood   all  throughout 

—  a  lie  of  whole  cloth,"  said  the  fiery  native  —  "so  let's  have  no 
more  of  it." 

44  Go  on  !  Go  on  !  old  Bile  !  It's  prime  !"  quoth  the  Texan. 
Not  heeding  either,  the  Alabamian  proceeded  as  if  he  were 
reading  from  a  book  : — 

•••  Wilmington  is  his  great  port  of  entry  —  hi>  city  by  the  sea. 
Here  he  carries  on  some  of  his  largest  manui.  averting 

daily  into  turpentine  a  thousand  barn-Is  of  the  odoriferous  jrum. 
His  dwelling  here  are  of  n.  '  ttwhere.  Ho 

lias  lately  been  (loin-;  them  up.  rebuihlin^  and  retouching  in  a 
style  that  shows  that  he  has  .suddenly  opi  ne<!  his  eyes  upon 
what  the  world  has  been  doing  elsewhere.  The  change  i>  really 
not  in  uni.Min  with  his  character.  It  sit*,  unnaturally  upon  him. 
•nd  givpfi  him  a  *lightly  fulpottv  r.i.mt.pr  which  is  nn  way*  pre- 


322  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

possessing.  He  seems  to  be  impressed  with  an  idea  that  the 
world  requires  him  to  bestir  himself.  He  has  a  certain  respect 
for  the  world,  and  is  not  unwilling  to  do  what  it  requires,  but  he 
moves  slowly  and  awkwardly  about  it,  and  lie  must  not  be  hur 
ried.  If  lie  can  accomplish  the  new  duty  without  disparaging 
the  old  habit,  he  has  no  objection,  but  he  seems  quite  unwilling 
to  give  up  his  pipe,  his  tar  barrel,  and  his  luxurious  position  in 
the  shade,  just  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  sunshine.  The  superfi 
cial  observer  thinks  him  lazy  rather  than  luxurious.  But  this  is 
scandal  surely.  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  he  has  a  Dutch  infu 
sion  in  his  veins,  which  antagonizes  the  naturally  mercurial 
characteristics  of  the  South  ;  but  it  is  really  a  Dutch  taste,  rather 
than  Dutch  phlegm,  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  his  failings. 

"  '  It  has  been  gravely  proposed  to  neutralize  his  deficiencies 
through  a  foreign  grafting,  and  by  the  introduction  of  a  colony 
from  Blufffcon  in  South  Carolina  —  otherwise  called  Little  Gasco- 
ny  —  and  no  doubt  an  amalgamation  with  some  of  the  tribes  of 
that  impatient  little  settlement  would  work  such  a  change  in  his 
constitution  as  might  lead  to  the  most  active  demonstrations.  It 
would  be  as  the  yeast  in  the  dough,  the  hops  in  the  beer,  the 
cayenne  in  the  broth.  The  dish  and  drink  would  become  rarely 
palatable  with  such  an  infusion. 

11 '  But,  even  if  we  allow  our  brother  to  be  indolent,  or  apathetic, 
we  are  constrained  to  say  that  he  is  not  without  his  virtues. 
His  chief  misfortune  is,  that  knowing  them  to  be  such,  he  has 
grown  rather  excessive  in  their  indulgence.  His  prudence  is 
one  of  his  virtues.  For  example,  he  will  owe  no  money  to  his 
neighbors  at  a  season  when  states  beggar  themselves  in  the 
wildest  speculations,  and  dishonor  themselves  through  a  base 
feeling  of  the  burden  of  their  debts.  Speculation  can  not  seduce 
him  into  following  their  foolish  and  mean  examples.  He  be 
lieves  in  none  of  the  fashionable  bubbles.  Fancy  stocks  have 
no  attractions  for  him.  He  rubs  his  forehead,  feels  his  pockets, 
and  remembers  his  old  sagacity.  Sometimes  he  has  been  be 
guiled  for  a  moment,  but  a  moment  only,  and  his  repentance  fol 
lowed  soon.  He  has  been  known,  for  example,  to  lay  down  a 
railway,  and  has  taken  it  up  again,  the  more  effectually  to  make 
himself  sure  of  being  able  to  meet  his  contracts.  His  logic  is 
<Jonbtful  perhaps,  his  purpose  and  policy  never.  You  can  not 


OPINIONS   OF   THE   OLD    NORTH    STATE.  328 

gull  him  into  banks,  though,  strange  to  say,  he  thinks  Nick  Bid- 
die  an  ill-used  man,  and  still  halts  with  a  face  looking  too  much 
in  the  direction  of  Whiggery.  And,  with  the  grateful  smell  of 
his  turpentine  factories  always  in  his  nostrils,  though  with  no 
other  interest  in  manufactures,  you  can  not  persuade  him  that  a 
protective  tariff  is  any  such  monstrous  bugbear,  as  when  it  ia 
painted  on  the  canvass  of  his  southern  sister. 

"'  Of  this  southern  sister  he  is  rather  jealous.  She  is  too  mer 
curial  to  be  altogether  to  his  liking.  He  thinks  she  runs  too 
fast.  He  is  of  opinion  that  she  is  forward  in  her  behavior  —  too 
much  so  for  his  notions  of  propriety.  A  demure  personage  him 
self,  he  dislikes  her  vivacity.  Even  the  grace  with  which  she 
couples  it,  is  only  an  additional  danger  which  he  eschews  with 
warning  and  frequent  exhortation.  His  error  is,  perhaps,  in  as 
suming  her  in  excess  in  one  way,  and  he  only  proper  in  the  oppo 
site  extreme. 

" '  As  little  prepared  is  he  to  approve  of  the  demeanor  of  his 
northern  brother.  Virginia  is  none  of  his  favorites.  He  has 
never  been  satisfied  with  the  high  head  she  carries,  from  the  day 
when  that  malicious  Col.  Byrd,  of  Westover,  made  fun  of  his 
commissioners.*  The  virtue  of  our  North-Carolinian  runs  some 
what  into  austerity.  We  fear  that  he  has  suffered  somehow  a 
cross  with  the  Puritans.  His  prudence  is  sometimes  a  little  too 
clo««e  in  its  economies.  His  propriety  may  be  suspected  of  cold- 
;  and  a  very  nice  analysis  may  find  as  much  frigidity  in  his 
moi!  uritv  and  sensibility.  He  is  unkind  to  nobody  so 

much  as  to  himself.  He  puts  himself  too  much  on  short  com 
mons.!  He  does  not  allow  for  what  is  really  generous  in  his 
nature,  and  freezes  np.  accordingly,  long  before  the  "  Yule  Log" 
is  laid  on  the  hearth  at  Christmas.  His  possessions  constitute  him, 
in  wealth  perhaps,  no  less  than  size,  one  of  the  first  class  state* 
of  the  confederacy  —  yet  lie  has  failed  always  to  put  the  proper 
value  on  them.  His  mountains  —  of  which  we  shall  givo  i 
after  a  series  of  sketches  —  are  salubrious  in  a  high  drgrn •  — 

*  S.  Mnnnarriptii,  ont«  of  the  pl«-anntt»st  of  native  productions-, 

from  a  genuine  wit  and  humorist,  and  a  frank  and  manly  Southron. 

t  The  venerable  Nathaniel  Mncon,  a  very  noble  and  virtuous  gentleman,  ha* 
bo«n  heard  to  uy  to  his  friend*,  "  Dor '  corn*  to  see  m«  this  se**oo  for  I'v» 
uiadr  DO  corn.  I'll  have  to  buy." 


324 

very  beautiful  to  the  eye,  and  full  of  precious  minerals  and  met 
als.*  But  his  metallurgists  do  precious  little  with  the  one,  and 
he  has  failed  to  commission  a  single  painter  to  make  pictures  of 
the  other.  He  has  some  first  rate  lands  scattered  over  his  vast 
domains  —  the  valleys  between  his  mountains  making  not  only 
the  loveliest  but  the  most  fertile  farmsteads,  while  along  his 
southern  borders,  on  the  seaboard,  it  is  found  that  he  can  raise 
as  good  rice  as  in  any  other  region.  But  he  is  too  religiously 
true  to  tar  and  turpentine  to  develope  the  rare  resources  which 
he  possesses  and  might  unfold  by  the  adoption  of  only  a  moder 
ate  degree  of  that  mouvement  impulse  which  the  world  on  every 
side  of  him  exhibits.!  He  has  tried  some  experiments  in  silk, 
but  it  seems  to  have  given  him  pain  to  behold  the  fatiguing  la 
bors  of  his  worms,  and,  averting  his  eyes  from  their  sufferings, 
he  has  forgotten  to  provide  the  fresh  mulberry  leaves  on  which 
they  fed.  When  they  perished,  his  consolation  was  found  in 
the  conviction  that  they  were  freed  from  their  toils ;  with  this 
additional  advantage  over  men,  that  their  works  would  never 
follow  them.  His  negroes  are  fat  and  lazy,  possessing,  in  the 
former  respect,  greatly  the  advantage  of  their  masters. 

"  '  Our  North-Carolinian  will  be  a  lean  dog  always —  though  it 
would  be  no  satisfaction  to  him  if  the  chase  is  to  be  inevitable 
from  the  leanness.  His  experience  refutes  the  proverb.  Certain 
ly,  the  contrast  is  prodigious  between  his  negroes  and  himself. 
They  have  the  most  unctuous  look  of  all  the  slaves  in  the  South 
—  and  would  put  to  utter  shame  and  confusion  their  brethren  of 
the  same  hue  in  the  Yankee  provinces  —  the  thin-visaged,  lank- 
jawed,  sunken-eyed,  shirking,  skulking  free  negroes  of  Connec 
ticut  and  Rhode  Island.  Our  North  Carolina  negro  rolls  rather 
than  walks.  His  head  is  rather  socketed  between  his  shoulders 
than  upon  a  neck  or  shaft.  When  he  talks,  it  is  like  a  heated 
dog  lapping  —  his  mouth  is  always  greasy,  and  he  whistles  when- 

*  It  is  not  so  generally  known  that  the  only  diamond*  found  in  the  United 
Stairs  have  been  found,  of  Litt;  years,  in  North  Carolina.  Sonic  six  or  eight 
huve  been  picked  up  without  search,  attesting  the  probable  abundance  of  the 
region. 

t  Our  orator  must  not  forgot  the  new  railroad  progress  of  the  old  North 
State.  It  strikes  us  she  has  nlready  turned  over  a  new  leaf,  and  promises  t» 
become  a  moving  character.  ED. 


VIRTUE    OK    1'UE    OLi>    N'UKTH    STATK. 

ever  be  has  eaten,  lie  is  the  emblem  of  a  race  the  moat  sleek, 
:ied,  and  saucy  in  the  world.  You  see  the  benevolence  of 
the  master  in  the  condition  of  the  slave.  He  derives  his  chief 
enjoyments,  indeed,  from  the  gay  humors  of  the  latter.  lie 
seems  to  have  been  chosen  by  Heaven  as  a  sort  of  guardian  of 
the  negro,  his  chief  business  being  to  make  him  happy. 

•"Our  North-Carolinian,  with  all  his  deficiencies,  is  a  model  of 
simplicity  and  virtue.  His  commendable  qualities  are  innumer 
able.  He  never  runs  into  excesses.  You  will  never  see  him 
playing  Jack  Pudding  at  a  feast.  He  commits  no  extravagances. 
You  will  m-ver  find  him  working  himself  to  death  for  a  living. 
He  is  as  moderate  in  his  desires  as  he  is  patient  in  his  toils.  He 
seems  t<>  envy  nobody.  You  can  scarcely  put  him  out  of  tem 
per.  He  contracts  no  debts,  and  is  auspicious  of  those  who  do. 
He  pays  as  he  goes,  and  never  through  the  nose.  He  wastes 
mine  of  his  capital,  if  he  never  increases  it,  and  his  economy  is 
such  that  he  never  troubles  himself  to  furnish  a  reason  for  his 
conduct,  before  he  is  asked  for  it.  In  truth  he  is  almost  too  vir 
tuous  for  our  time.  He  seems  to  have  been  designed  for  quite 
another  planet.  He  is  totally  unambitious,  and  though  you  may 
congratulate  yourself  at  getting  ahead  of  him,  you  will  be  morti 
fied  to  learn  from  himself  that  this  is  altogether  because  he  pre 
fers  to  remain  behind.  He  has  no  wants  now  that  I  remember, 
with  a  Dingle  exception.  Without  having  a  single  moral  feature 
in  common  with  Diogenes,  he  perhaps  will  be  obliged  to  you  if 
you  will  nut  interrupt  his  sunshine.'  '' 

"  Well,  have  you  done  at  last  ?"  demanded  the  fiery  little  son 
of  the  old  North  State,  as  the  oilier  appeared  to  pau^-. 

14  The  chronicle  ]  —  yes." 

11  Well,  I'll  just  take  leave  to  say  that  it's  a  most  slanderous 
and  lying  history  tV«»m  iu-ginning  to  end." 

44  To  what  iio  you  ol.jrrt  f" 

"  To  t-vi-r\  tiling." 

"  Hut  \\hat  i.s  tin-re  that  you  deny  to  ba  true?" 

••  Wrll,  there's  that  about  our  .shipping.     Why,  instead 
vessels,  Wilmington's  got  fifty,  more  or  less,  and  some  of  them 
steamers,  and  some  of  them  square-rigged,  brigs  and  hermaphro 
dites." 


826  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

"  I  admit  the  hermaphrodites.  I  have  seen  one  of  them  my 
self." 

"  Ah !  have  you  ?  and  you'll  admit  the  brigs  and  schooners 
too,  I  reckon,  if  you're  put  to  it,  and  the  steamers.  Then,  too,  yo* 
don't  say  a  word  of  our  exports." 

44  Your  produce,  you  mean  !  Didn't  I  admit  the  pumpkins  and 
the  peas  ?" 

44  As  if  six  millions  could  be  got  out  of  peas  and  pumpkins." 

"  It  does  seem  a  large  amount,  indeed,  from  such  a  source, 
but  of  course  there's  the  tar  and  turpentine." 

44 1  say,  young  hoss,"  put  in  the  Texan,  44  don't  you  see  that 
old  Bile  is  just  putting  the  finger  of  fun  into  the  green  parts  of 
your  eye." 

44  Well  said,  son  of  Texas  ;  the  figure  is  not  a  bad  one.  The 
finger  of  fun  !  —  green  parts  of  the  eye  !  Good  —  decidedly.'* 

44  He's  poking  fun  at  me,  you  mean  to  say." 

"That's  it!" 

44  Well,  he  shall  see  that  he  can't  do  that  without  risking  some 
thing  by  the  transaction.  One  thing,  my  friend,  you  forgot  to 
say  about  the  people  of  North  Carolina  in  your  chronicle.  They 
won't  stand  impudence  of  any  sort.  And  now  I  have  just  to  ask 
of  you  for  an  answer,  up  and  down,  to  one  question." 

41  Propound !" 

"  Did  you  mean  to  make  my  state  or  me,  personally,  ridiculous 
by  what  you  have  been  saying  ?" 

44  Ridiculous,  indeed,  my  friend  !  How  can  you  imagine  such 
a  vain  thing.  You  are  quite  too  sensitive.  Your  self-esteem  is 
singularly  undeveloped.  Your  state  is  a  very  great  state,  after 
a  somewhat  peculiar  model,  and  no  doubt,  though  a  small  man, 
you  are  one  who  need  not  be  ashamed  of  yourself  or  your 
acquaintance." 

We  all  assured  the  young  Carolinian  that  there  could  be  no 
purpose  to  give  him  offence  —  that  the  Alabamian  was  simply 
2iideavoring  to  amuse  the  company  with  a  salient  view  of  men 
-ind  communities. 

"  But  he  shan't  do  so  at  my  expense. 

"  Oli  !  lie  means  nothing  of  the  kind.' 

"If  he  did!" 

"  Well !"  quoth  the  Alabamian.     "  If  I  did  !  what  then  1" 


PROWESS   OF   THE   ORATOR.  327 

44  Why,  you'd  only  try  it  at  some  peril." 

44  Peril  of  what  1" 

"Of  a  fight  to  be  sure  !  We'd  see  who  was  the  best  man 
after  all." 

"  There  is  something  in  the  warning  to  prompt  a  person  to 
tread  cautiously.  The  rattle  announces  the  snake.  Now,  look 
you,  my  friend,  once  for  all,  I  beg  leave  to  disclaim  all  desire  to 
offend  you.  I  simply  sought  to  enjoy  my  jest,  in  an  innocent 
way,  and  to  amuse  other  people  by  it.  That  ought  to  be  suffi 
cient  ;  but,  for  my  own  sake  and  self-esteem,  I  must  add  that 
it  is  only  as  a  good  Christian  that  I  say  so  much.  I  am  apt  to 
be  riled  rather,  —  feel  skin  and  hair  both  raised  unnaturally  — 
when  I  am  threatened  ;  and,  as  for  a  fight,  it  sounds  to  me  rather 
like  an  invitation  than  a  warning.  Were  you  now  to  desire  to 
do  battle  with  me  how  would  you  propose  to  fight  I" 

"  Why,  if  I  were  really  anxious,  I  shouldn't  much  care  how. 
I  am  good  at  pistol  and  rifle,  and  have  heft  enough  for  a  good 
bout  at  arms-length  with  a  bigger  man  than  myself." 

"  Well,  my  good  fellow,  for  all  that,  you'd  stand  no  chance 
with  me  at  either.  I  should  whip  you  out  of  your  breeches, 
without  unbuttoning  mine." 

-  You'?" 

••  Yes,  I." 

We  were  ail  now  somewhat  curious.  The  orator  did  not  look 
half  the  man  of  his  opponent. 

•'Now,"  said  he,  "without  lighting,  which  wouldn't  do  hero 
«i  coui.-.r,  N\e  t-an  tot  the  chances  of  the  two.  Suppose  you 
try  and  lift  that  little  l<ni»  pin. ••_•  yonder,"  pointing  to  the  can- 
n  in  nf  the  steamer,  "our  captain's  brazen  beauty." 

••  I  can't  do  it,  nor  you." 

••  An>wt-r  tor  youiM-lt'.      /  can.      Hut  la-re  is  a  test." 

With  the>e  woid>  he  sei/ed  two  chair*  that  stood  at  hand. 

"  Hold  the  hacks  ot    these   tinnlv,"  he  >aid    to  the  bvstandeiu. 

He  placed  the-  chairs  M-HU-  ti\e  feet  apart,  and  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  had  Mi  etched  hliuM-lf  at  length,  the  back  of  his  head 
resting  upon  one  chair,  his  heels  upon  the  other. 

44  Now,  some  halt'  dozen  of   YOU  sit  upon  me." 

To  the  astonihhinriit  (,f  all,  the  slight-looking  pc.rson.  who 
8€emcd  too  frail  to  support  him-elf,  maintained  two  or  three  p«r 


328  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

sons  for  several  seconds  sitting  upon  his  unsupported  body.  He 
stretched  out  his  arms  to  the  group. 

"  Feel  them." 

They  were  all  muscle  —  so  much  whip,  cord  and  wire. 

"You  spoke  of  pistol  and  rifle,"  continued  the  orator.  "You 
shall  have  a  sample  of  shooting."  He  retired  for  a  few  moments^ 
and  returned,  bringing  with  him  a  large  case  which,  when  opened, 
displayed  a  beautiful  brace  of  pistols  and  a  rifle  of  elegant  pro 
portions  and  high  finish.  The  pistols  were  already  charged.  A 
bottle  was  thrown  into  the  sea,  and,  at  the  flash  of  the  pistol,  was 
shattered  to  a  thousand  pieces. 

"  My  friend,"  quoth  the  orator,  "  I  have  led  just  that  sort  of 
life  which  makes  a  man  up  to  anything  ;  and  the  use  of  the 
weapon,  of  every  sort,  is  natural  to  me  in  any  emergency.'* 

"  Well,  faint  your  muscle  and  strength  and  good  shooting  that 
would  keep  me  from  having  a  trial  with  you,  in  case  you  show'd 
a  disposition  to  insult  me." 

"  But  I  avow  no  such  disposition,  my  excellent  friend  of  tho 
old  North  State." 

"  Many's  the  man  that's  a  good  shot  at  a  bottle,  who 
can't  take  a  steady  aim,  with  another  pistol  looking  him  in  the 
face." 

"  Nothing  more  true.  But  we  need  say  no  more  on  this  head, 
unless  you  still  think  that  I  designed  offence." 

"  Well,  since  you  say  you  didn't,  of  course,  I'm  satisfied." 

"  I'm  glad  of  it.  There's  my  fist.  I  didn't  mean  offence  to 
you,  my  friend  ;  but  I  confess  to  amusing  myself  at  all  hazards 
and  with  any  sort  of  customer.  You  happened  in  the  way,  and 
I  stumbled  over  you.  You  are  a  clever  fellow,  and  I  don't  like 
you  the  less  for  standing  up  for  your  state,  which  is  a  clever  and 
most  respectable  state,  —  a  state  of  size,  and  some  sizable  steam 
boats  and  schooners,  —  not  forgetting  the  hermaphrodite.  And 
now,  let  us  have  a  touch  of  snake  and  tiger  together." 

"Where  were  you  born?"  dcmaixlcd  the  North-Carolinian. 

"I  was  born  in  a  cloud  and  suckled  by  the  east  wind." 

"  Oh,  get  out !     I  reckon  you're  crazy,  after  all." 

"  I'll  defend  myself  against  the  imputation  when  you'll  prove 
to  me  that  anybody  is  quite  sane.  It  is  but  a  difference  in 
•iegree  between  the  whole  family  of  man." 


ANTIQUITIES    OF   3MITHVILLE.  329 

"What's  your  biisin,-x>  >  Yon'v«  served,  I  reckon,  iu  the 
army.' 

"  Yes,  as  a  ranger." 

"  Been  in  many  fights  ?" 

"  A  few.  The  last  I  had  was  with  seven  Apache  Indians.  I 
had  but  one  revolver,  a  six-barrel — " 

-  Well  !" 

"  I  killed  six  of  the  sava^ 

"  And  the  seventh  ?" 

"  He  killed  me  !  —  And  now  for  the  snake  and  tiger." 

The  two  disappeared  together,  steering  in  the  direction  of  the 
bar.  When  they  next  joined  us,  the  North-Carolinian  had  his 
arm  thrust  lovingly  through  that  of  his  tormentor,  and  came 
forward  laughing  uproariously,  and  exclaiming:  — 

"  You  should  have  heard  him.  Lord,  what  a  fellow  !  He's 
mad  as  thunder  —  that's  certain;  but  he's  got  a  mighty  deal  of 
sense  in  him,  in  spite  of  all." 

"  We  are  about  opposite  Smithville  now,''  said  our  captain,  as 
the  Alabamian  came  up.  The  latter  turned  to  the  North-Caro 
linian,  and,  with  a  poke  in  his  ribs,  said  :  — 

"  Y<>u  thought  me  quizzing  your  state,  when,  in  fact,  I  have 
more  reverence  for  its  anti<iuities  than  any  person  I  know. 
ThL  place,  Smithville,  for  example,  I  have  .studied  with  great 
industry.  It  was  settled  —  perhaps  you  have  heard  —  by  the 
first  man  of  the  name  of  Smith  that  came  out  of  Noah's  ark. 
suppMM-d,  iii.ii •( -.1,  to  be  the  very  spot  where  the  ark  re>ted 
when  the  waters  subsided.  There  is  an  old  windmill  here, 
btill  to  be  seen,  and  the  most  picturesque  object  in  the  place, 
which  is  referred  back  to  the  period  when  Noah  carried  three 
sheets  in  the  wind.  The  people  here,  of  cour>e,  are  all  named 
':.." 

"Oh,  that's  a  mistake,  my  dear  fellow,"  put  in  the  North-Caro 
linian.  l>  You  have  been  imp  >.-ed  upon.  1  know  the  place,  and 
know  that  the  Buttons  live  here,  and  the  Black  family  ;  and 
there's  another  family ' 

"Nevermind  —  it  is  y.,u  who  are  mistaken.  They  are  really 
all  Smiths,  however  much  they  may  (li&giiise  and  deny.  There's 
a  family  likeness  miming  through  all  of  them  which  nobody 
c*n  dispute." 


380  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"  That's  true.  There  is  such  a  likeness,  I  admit." 
"  Of  course  you  must  admit.  Everybody  sees  it.  The  won 
der  is,  that,  boasting  such  a  great  antiquity,  they  are  so  little 
ambitious.  Their  enterprise  is  limited  to  an  occasional  visit  to 
the  oyster  bank,  where  it  is  said  they  will  feed  for  some  hours 
at  a  stretch,  but  they  never  trouble  themselves  to  carry  any  of 
the  fruits  away.  The  pearl-fisheries,  which  conjecture  supposes 
to  have  been  very  active  here  at  one  period,  were  discontinued 
and  fell  into  neglect  somewhere  about  the  time  of  the  Babylonian 
captivity.  Smithville  is  a  place  that  should  largely  command 
the  veneration  of  the  spectator,  apart  from  its  antiquity  of  site, 
and  the  antiquities  which  may  yet  be  found  within  its  precincts 
after  proper  exploration  ;  it  is  a  study  for  the  ethnologist.  There 
is  one  peculiarity  about  the  race  —  all  the  children  here  are  old 
when  they  are  bom.  The  period  of  gestation  seems  to  be  about 
eighteen  years.  The  child  is  invariably  born  with  a  reddish 
mustache  and  imperial,  and  a  full  stock  of  reddish  hair." 

"  Bless  me,  what  a  story !  Why,  how  they  have  imposed 
upon  you,  old  fellow !  I  tell  you,  I  myself  know  the  families 
of  Button  and  Black,  and — and  they  all  have  children  —  real 
children,  just  like  any  other  people's  children  —  little,  small, 
helpless,  with  hardly  any  hair  upon  their  heads,  not  a  sign  of  a 
moustache,  and  the  color  of  the  hair  is  whitish,  rather  than 
reddish,  when  they  are  born." 

The  assurance  was  solemly  given  by  our  Carolinian. 
44  How  a  man's  own  eyes  may  deceive  him  !  My  dear  friend, 
you  never  saw  a  child  in  Smithville  of  native  origin  at  all. 
The  natives  are  all  full  grown.  If  you  saw  children  there  — 
ordinary  children  —  they  were  all  from  foreign  parts,  and  griev 
ously  out  of  their  element,  I  assure  you.  Your  supposed  facts 
must  not  be  allowed  to  gainsay  philosophy.  I  repeat,  the  re 
gion,  on  this  score  of  idiosyncrasy  in  the  race,  should  attract 
the  ethnologists.  In  mere  antiquities  —  in  the  proofs  of  ancient 
ail  —  it  is  also  rich.  I  have  found  curiously-wrought  fragments 
of  stone  there,  —  sharp  at  the  edges,  somewhat  triangular  of 
shape — " 

"  Nothing  but  Indian  arrow-heads,  I  reckon." 
"My  frieud,  why   expose  yourself?     Tbey  were   sacrificial 
implements,  no  doubt.     Then,  curious  vases.  >n  fragment*  »ro 


THE   ANCIENT  SUITOR.  331 

to  be  still  picked  up,  such  as  were  probably  employed  for  sacred 
purposes  in  the  temples  of  their  gods." 

"As  I  live,  old  Bile,"  said  the  Texan  —  "nothing  but  Injun 
pots  and  pans  for  biling  hominy." 

"Get  thee  behind  us,  Texas  —  blanket  thyself  and  be  silent. 
The  present  inhabitants  of  Smithville  are  certainly  the  Autoc- 
thones — natives  of  the  soil.  They  have  never  known  any 
other.  And  yet,  Smith  is  said  to  have  been  a  common  name 
among  the  Phoenicians.  Its  founder  was  undoubtedly  Tubal- 
Cain.  It  is  fortunate  that  we  have  a  place  like  Smithville.  des 
tined  for  its  perpetuation.  "We  are,  unhappily,  fast  losing  all 
traces  of  the  venerable  name  in  every  other  quarter  of  the 
country." 

"Why  how  you  talk!  There  isn't  a  name  so  common  as 
Smith  in  all  our  country." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  fellow  !  do  you  not  see  that  you  are  giving 
constant  proof  of  what  I  said  touching  Smithville,  that  all  the 
babies  were  grown  men  at  birth  ?" 

"  That's  somehow  a  fling  at  me,  I  reckon  ;  but  I  sha'n't  quar 
rel  with  you,  now  I  know  you." 

At  this  moment,  the  tender  tinkle  of  the  guitar,  in  the  hands 
of  Selina  Burroughs,  announced  that  my  friend  Duyckman  had 
succeeded  in  his  entreaties ;  and  we  gathered  around  the  ladies, 
and  the  mischievous  fooling  of  our  Alabamian  ceased  for  a  sea 
son, — but  only  for  a  season.  The  young  lady  sang  v»  iv 
sweetly  ont  of  Anacreon  Moore's  best  lyrics,  accompanied  by 
my  friend  from  Gotham.  When  she  had  done,  to  the  surprise 
of  all,  our  orator,  who  seemed  quite  a  universal  genius,  coolly 
took  up  the  guitar  when  the  damsel  laid  it  down,  and,  without 
apology  or  preliminary  of  any  kind,  gave  us  the  following 
pie  of  the  mock-heroic  with  equal  archness  and  effect :  — 

THE    ANCIENT    SUITOB. 

OLD  Tirm-  wai  an  ancient  iuitor, 

Who,  hcrdlrts  of  jinv  nnd  judge, 
Still  k«-pt  to  the  MWI  of  hit  tutor 

And  h.-l.l  that  all  fashion  waa  fudg  • : 
He  DCS. -i  kept  tc-nnji  *itli  the  tailor*, 

Th«.  aid  of  th*  Urber*  h«  nconTd 


832  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

And  with  person  ns  huge  as  a  whaler's, 
His  person  lie  never  adorn'd. 

Sing  —  Out  on  that  ancient  suitor. 

What  chance  could  he  have  with  a  maiden, 

When  round  her,  the  gallant  and  guy 
Came  flocking,  their  bravest  array'd  in, 

Still  leading  her  fancies  astray  T 
But  he  studied  the  chapter  of  chances, 

And  hnving  no  green  in  his  eyes, 
He  gallantly  made  his  advances, 

As  if  certain  to  carry  the  prize. 
Sing  —  Hey  for  that  ancient  suitor. 

But  his  beard  had  grown  whiter  than  erer, 

He  still  made  no  change  in  his  drest, 
But  the  codger  had  Anglican  clever, 

And  was  confident  still  of  success; 
And  the  ladies  now  smiled  at  his  presence, 

Each  engerly  playing  out  trumps, 
And  his  coming  now  conjured  up  pleasance, 

Where  before  it  but  conjured  up  dumps. 
Sing — Ho  for  that  ancient  suitor! 

And  what  were  the  arts  of  our  suitor? 

Why,  the  simplest  of  nil,  to  be  sure 
He  took  up  Dnn  Plutus  ns  tutor, 

Dan  Cupid  he  kicked  from  the  door. 
Still  sneering  at  sentiment-gammon, 

He  found  thnt  whene'er  he  could  prove, 
That  his  Worship  found  favor  with  Mammon, 

His  worship  found  favor  with  love. 
Hurrah  !   for  tnat  ancient  suitor  ! 

"  Oh  !  most  lame  and  impotent  conclusion,"  cried  the  lady 
An  old  and  stale  scandal." 

41  What  a  slander  of  the  sex,"  echoed  Gotham,  looking  more 
sentimental  than  ever. 

"  I  have  given  you  but  a  true  and  common  history,"  answered 
the  orator.  "  It  is  within  every  man's  experience  ;  but  here's  a 
case  that  occurred  in  one  of  our  own  villages.  The  ladies  there 
admit  the  fact  to  be  undeniable,  though  they  assert — Credat 
Jud&us  !  —  that  the  world  can  show  no  other  such  marvellous 
example." 

Here  he  again  fingered  the  guitar  with  the  ease  of  one  who 
had  mastered  all  its  pulses,  and  sung  the  following  historical 
ballad,  which  he  called  — 


INVITATION    MK    WIDOWHOOD, 


LOVE'S    CONTINGENT    REMAINDER. 

AT  eve,  when  the  young  moon  wns  shining, 

And  thp  South   wind  in  whispers  arose, 
A  youth,  by  the  smooth  strenm  reclining, 

Thus  pour'd  forth  the  stream  of  his  woes;— 
"  I  sigh  and  I  sing  for  the  maiden, 

Who  dwells  in  the  depths  of  yon  grove ; 
Not  the  lily,  its  whiteness  army'd  in, 

So  beautiful  seems  to  my  love." 

An2  ihe  maiden,  she  drank  in  the  ditty 

With  keen  sense  and  a  tremulous  heart  t 
But  there  dwelt  an  old  man  in  the  city, 

And  he  in  her  musings  had  pan: 
She  answer'd  love's  song  by  another, 

To  the  very  same  air,  but  less  sweet, 
And  some  sighs  which  she  struggled  to  smother 

Found  their  way  to  the  youth  at  her  feet. 

Ah  !   Dick,  I  confess  you  are  dearest, 

But  then  you  can  buy  nothing  dear; 
Your  song  is  the  sweetest  and  clearest. 

And  I  dote  on  your  whiskers  and  hair; 
But  then,  the  old  man  in  the  city, 

Has  bonds  and  bank-notes,  and  a  store, 
Such  possessions,  both  costly  and  pretty, 

And  he  promises  gold  in  galore. 

With  you  I  should  find  love  in  marriage, 

But  love  is  poor  feeding  uloin- ; 
With  him  I  have  horses  and  rnrriajfe  ; 

With  you  but  n  mist  and  a  hone; 
He  leaves  me  no  lime  to  consider, 

Still  pressing  with  tongue  nnd  with  pen, 
Kut  if  ever  he  leaves  me  a  widow, 

Oh  !    Dicky,  •  nme  sinp  to  me  then  ! 

14  Worse  ami  worse  !"  cried  tnd  lady. 

•'  Truer  and  truer,"  answerer!  the  orator. 

44  Bless  me,  sir,  for  wlmt  rea^m  is  it  tli.it  you  so  hate  our  sox  ?" 
Hate  your  sex  !  Nobody  loves  it  better.  I  have  been 
married  three  times!" 

44  That  accounts  for  it  all !"  quotb  Gotham,  totto  rorf,  with 
the  fooling  of  one  who  in  amply  avenged.  Selina  Burroughs 


884  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

"  The  danger  seems  to  be  that  he  will  leave  just  such  an  in 
scription  upon  his  monument  as  the  Hon.  Mr.  Custis  of  the  East 
ern  Shore." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  No  story  to-night  ?"  inquired  one  of  the  party. 

"  By  the  way,  yes — and  our  friend  here  from  North  Carolina, 
has  been  appointed  to  deliver  it." 

With  a  thousand  excuses  and  apologies,  some  stammering  and 
much  confusion,  our  fiery  little  companion  commenced  his  task, 
in  a  legend  of  the  North  Carolina  shore,  which  he  entitled 

THE  SHIP  OF  FIRE. 

44  THE  State  of  North  Carolina,  the  assumed  poverty  of  which  in 
material  resources,  and  in  mind,  has  been  a  little  too  much  dwelt 
upon  by  some  portions  of  this  company,  is,  nevertheless,  quite 
as  rich,  in  all  respects,  as  any  of  her  sister  states.  Her  deficiency 
seems  to  lie  in  her  want  of  a  seaport  of  capacity  equal  to  her 
product,  and  in  the  lack  of  a  population  sufficiently  dense  for  her 
territorial  magnitude.  We  may  never  be  able  to  supply  the 
one  deficiency,  except  possibly  by  railroads  which  shall  give  us 
the  free  use  of  the  harbors  of  our  sister  states ;  but  the  latter 
will  be  developed  on  a  magnificent  scale,  so  soon  as  the  popula 
tion  shall  become  sufficiently  dense  for  the  due  exploration  and 
working  of  our  soil.  Our  productions,  as  the  case  stands,  must 
now  amount  to  fully  eight  millions,  sent  to  market  along 
shore.  And  this,  be  it  remembered,  is  pretty  much  a  sur 
plus  production.  As  an  agricultural  community,  North  Carolina 
supports  herself  apart  from  what  she  sells.  Of  the  morals  of  tho 
people  of  our  State,  I  have  only  to  say,  that  they  shrink  from 
comparison  with  none.  We  do  no  startling  things,  but  we  rob 
no  exchequers.  We  attempt  no  wonderful  works,  but  we  repudi 
ate  none  of  our  debts.  In  brief,  we  owe  no  debts.  There  is  no 
State  in  the  Union  quite  so  independent  as  North  Carolina.  Yon 
may  smile  at  her  simplicity,  but  you  must  respect  her  honesty. 
You  may  see  something  green  in  her  eye,  but  nothing  jaundiced. 
If  goaded  by  no  wild  ambition,  she  is  troubled  with  no  excess 
of  bile.  Her  brains  may  never  set  rivers  on  fire,  but  they  are 
sure  not  to  blow  up  her  locomotive. 

4  But,  even  in  enterprises,  such  as  are  so  laigely  assumed  to  bf 


THE    SHIP    OF    KlKb.  885 

the  signs  of  moral  progress,  she  is  not  idle.  In  proportion  t<« 
the  strength  of  her  population,  her  railroads  are  as  extensive 
as  those  of  any  other  Southern  State;  and  *hen  you  consider 
the  wide  stretch  of  her  territory  and  the  difficulties  of  her  situr 
tion,  lacking  an  eligible  seaport,  she  has  done  more  and  better 
than  most.  Her  people  are  prosperous,  making  money  fast ;  the 
results  of  tar  and  turpentine  will  put  to  shame  those  of  your 
boasted  regions  of  rice  and  cotton ;  and  our  railroads  hnve 
brought  into  use,  for  these  productions,  vast  territories  which  have 
hitherto  yielded  nothing.  I  repeat,  that  in  the  morals  of  her  peo 
ple,  their  physical  prosperity,  their  virtues  and  advance  in  edu 
cation,  North  Carolina  need  shrink  in  comparison  with  none  of 
the  states  of  this  confederacy." 

"  Bravo  !  —  spoken  like  a  patriot !  But  what  of  the  story  all 
this  time?" 

"  Patiently  :  I  had  first  to  fling  off  some  of  the  feeling  with 
which  you,  sir,  have  been  stirring  me  up  about  my  good  old 
State  for  the  last  twenty-four  hours." 

"Well  -  you  have  relieved  yourself?" 

"  Perhaps :  but  a  few  words  more,  before  I  begin  my  legend. 
I  shall  not  say  anything  here  about  our  lack  of  literature  in 
North  Carolina,  since  the  argument  necessarily  belongs  to  most 
of  the  Southern  States  —  in  fact,  to  all  the  States  —  our  national 
deficiency  being  still  a  reproach  to  us  in  the  mouths  of  other  na 
tions.  When  the  nation,  as  a  whole,  shall  be  able  to  answer  this 
reproach  satisfactorily,  it  will  then  be  quite  time  enough  for 
North  Carolina  to  show  her  solicitude  as  to  what  people  think 
of  her  shortcomings." 

11  Quite  logical  that." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  native  genius  of  the  old  North 
State  will  bring  her  intellectual  wares  into  the  market  in  dut 
season  for  her  reputation." 

"  Save  her  distance,  you  mean." 

"  As  you  please.  Her  native  material  affords  adequate  stuff 
for  the  future  author  and  artist.  She  is  rich  in  traditions  and 
unwritten  histories.  Her  revolutionary  chronicles  are  by  no 
meaijs  meagre,  and  only  lack  the  chronicler  and  author.  They 
will  be  found  as  soon  as  our  communities  shall  become  suffi 
ciently  dense  and  numerous  to  afford  the  audience." 


:f»  M.flH  \\AKD    HU 

"Meanwhile,  we  will  put  off  the  re^iisition  ad  Gmxu*  Kai- 
endas.  The  argument  is  a  good  plea  for  all  the  states  if  ad- 
missible  in  the  case  of  one.  I  doubt  its  propriety.  I  am  not 
prepared  to  believe  in  that  inspiration  which  waits  upon  the 
gathering  of  the  audience.  But  the  point  needs  no  discussion. 
Go  ahead  with  your  story." 

"  My  story  must  excite  no  expectations.  I  am  no  artist,  and 
shall  attempt  nothing  but  a  simple  sketch  —  a  bare  outline  of  a 
legend  which  oiu  simple  people  along  the  seashore,  wreckers 
and  fishermen,  have  told  a  thousand  times  with  grave  looks  and 
a  most  implicit  faith.  It  will  add  but  another  chapter  to  the 
vast  chronicles  of  credulity  which  we  possess,  and  skepticism 
will  decide  against  it  only  as  further  proof  of  human  supersti 
tions  which  keep  their  ground  even  in  the  most  enlightened 
ages.  Be  it  so.  The  wise  man  will  find  much  occasion  for 
thought  even  where  the  subject  is  a  vulgar  superstition.  The 
inventive  genius  may  go  further,  and  weave  from  it  some  of 
those  beautiful  fictions  which  need  no  better  staple  than  tho 
stuff  which  dreams  are  made  of — which  delight  us  in  the  fancies 
of  Comus,  and  carry  us  into  new  creations,  and  new  realms  of 
exploration  in  the  Tempest  and  Midsummer  Night's  Dream." 

Thus  far  the  preliminaries.  Our  raconteur  then  proceedeo 
as  follows :  — 

"  You  are  then  to  know  that  annually,  at  a  regularly-recur 
ring  period,  the  coast  of  North  Carolina,  even  the  very  route 
over  which  we  voyage  now,  is  visited  by  a  luminous  object  hav 
ing  the  exact  appearance,  at  a  little  distance,  of  a  ship  on  fire. 
This  appearance  has  been  seen  regularly,  according  to  the  tra 
dition,  and  the  fact  has  been  certified  by  the  sworn  state 
ments  in  recent  times,  of  very  credible  witnesses.  They  afiirm 
that  nothing  can  be  more  distinct  than  the  appearance  of  this 
ship,  limned  in  fire,  consuming,  yet  always  ujQConsumed.  She 
invariably  appears  approaching  from  the  east.  She  Sjp 
slowly  toward  the  west,  nearing  the  shores  always  until  serrn- 
ingly  about  to  run  aground,  when  she  disappears,  for  a  moment, 
only  to  re-emerge  again  from  the  distant  east.  Thus  advancing 
perpetually,  she  appears  to  grow  in  bulk  to  grow  more  vivid 
and  distinct  as  she  draws  nigh,  until,  when  most  perfect  to  tho 
nye.  and  about  to  enter  tlir  harbor — whon  she  flits  from  sight, 


IHK    1'ALAlINK-v 

only  to  shoot  up  in  the  distance  ami  renew  her  fiery  progrena  to 
the  shore. 

"  Every  part  of  her  seems  ablaze.  Hull  and  gunwale,  mart 
and  spar,  sail  and  cordage,  are  all  distinctly  defined  in  fiery  mass 
and  outline.  Yet  she  does  not  seem  to  burn.  No  iiery  flakes 
•.d,  no  smoke  darkens  her  figure,  no  shroud  or  sail  tails,  no 
visible  change  takes  place  in  her  fate,  or  dimensions  —  and  thus 
perfect,  she  glides  onward  to  the  shore,  glides  along  the  shore, 
skirts  the  breakers  into  which  she  appears  about  to  penetrate, 
then  suddenly  goes  out;  but  only,  as  I  have  said,  to  loom  up 
once  more  upon  the  eastern  edge  of  the  sea.  This  operation 
continues  for  twenty -four  hours,  one  day  in  every  year." 

"  Bless  me,  how  curious.  I  wish  we  could  get  an  exhibition  of 
It  now.  Is  it  a  regular  day  in  the  year  on  which  it  app«- 

"  So  it  is  asserted,  but  I  do  not  recollect  the  day,  and  I  doubt 
if  our  chronicles  determine  the  fact.  But  the  affidavits  of  re 
spectable  witnesses  give  the  date  on  which  they  declare  them 
selves  to  have  seen  the  spectacle,  and  that  day,  each  year,  may 
be  assumed  to  be  the  one  on  which  it  annually  reappears." 

"  Well,  how  do  they  account  for  this  singular  exhibition  ?" 

"  In  the  following  manner.  The  tradition,  I  may  add,  is  a 
very  old  one,  and  the  historical  facts,  so  far  as  they  may,  are 
found  to  confirm  it. 

"  The  burning  vessel  is  known  as  '  The  ship  of  the  Palat::. 
The  story  is  that,  some  time  during  the  region  of  the  First 
George  of  England,  and  when  it  was  the  anxious  policy  of  that 
monarch  to  encourage  emigration  to  the  Southern  Colonies,  a 
small  company  of  that  class  of  colonists  who  were  known  a* 
'German  Palatines  '  having  come  from  the  Palatinate,  arrived 
in  London  set-king  means  to  get  to  America.  They  were  sus 
tained  lor  a  time  at  the,  public  expense,  until  a  vessel  could  be 
chartered  tor  their  use,  when  they  took  their  departure  1'.  . 
New  \V--rld.  The  public  policy  made  it  comparatively  ea-v  to 
per-uade  the  crown  to  this  sort  nf  liberality  ;  and  MU-OU-  of  this 
character  was  fretjurntly  accorded  to  this  cla>s  <>f  ad  venturers, 
win*  wore  supposed  to  have  a  special  claim  mi  the  bounty  »t  the 
German  monarch  of  the  English.  The  emigrants,  in  the  pi< 
instance,  wore  the  appearance  of  poverty  so  common  to  their 
class,  and  studiously  forebore  to  betray  the  fact  that  they  had 

15 


888  -iTTHWAltl*    «"'• 


any  resources  of  their  own.  But,  as  usual,  in  all  such  cases, 
they  were  far  less  destitute  than  they  avowed  themselves.  Our 
Palatines,  on  this  occasion,  were  in  rather  better  condition,  in 
pecuniar}"  respects,  than  was  commonly  the  fact  with  their  coun 
trymen.  It  was  only  a  natural  cunning  which  prompted  their 
concealment  of  means  which  they  preferred  to  keep  in  reserve 
for  other  uses.  Upon  their  secresy,  on  this  head,  depended  their 
hope  of  help  from  private  bounty  and  the  public  exchequer.  They 
kept  their  secret  successfully  while  on  shore.  It  was  their  great 
error  and  misfortune  that  they  were  less  prudent  when  they  put 
to  sea.  They  had  treasures  —  speaking  with  due  heed  to  the 
usual  standards  of  inferior  castes  —  of  considerable  value;  treas 
ures  of  gold  and  silver,  jewels  and  movables  ;  old  family  acu- 
mulations,  little  relics  of  a  former  prosperity:  relics  of  an  affection 
which  sometimes  stinted  itself  in  its  daily  desires,  that  it  might 
provide  token  and  trinket  to  give  pleasure  to  a  beloved  one. 
The  stock,  in  these  things,  which  had  been  parsimoniously  kept, 
and  cunningly  hidden  away  by  this  little  community  of  adven 
turers,  was  by  no  means  inconsiderable.  A  treasure  of  great 
value  in  their  own  eyes,  it  was  a  sufficient  bait  to  lust  and  cupid 
ity,  when  beheld  by  those  of  others.  But  I  must  not  anticipate. 
These  treasures  of  the  precious  metals,  toys,  and  trinkets,  wore 
easily  concealed  in  close  nooks,  among  their  common  luggage, 
and,  seeming  no  other  than  a  poor  peasantry,  and  mere  destitutes 
of  society,  they  went  on  board  of  the  vessel  which  had  been 
chartered  for  them,  and  soon  after  put  out  to  sea. 

"  The  voyage  was  a  very  tedious  one,  protracted  by  bad 
weather,  and  thwarting  winds.  The  bark  in  which  they  sailed 
was  one  which  would  be  likely,  in  our  day,  to  be  condemned  as 
unseaworthy,  except  when  soldiers,  doing  battle  for  the  country, 
needed  to  be  sent  to  Texas  and  California.  It  would  answer 
even  now  for  such  purposes  —  perhaps  find  preference." 

"  A  good  hit,  young  Turpentine,"  quoth  the  Alabamian. 

"  Our  Palatines  were  pretty  well  wornout  by  the  tedium  of 
the  voyage,  their  miserable  fare  and  more  miserable  accommoda 
tions.  The  ship  was  leaky,  the  stores  stale,  the  storms  frequent, 
and,  our  poor  adventurers,  new  to  such  a  progress,  were  terribly 
subdued  in  spirit  long  before  they  made  soundings.  When 
at  length  they  did,  when  at  length  the  low  gray  coast  of  North 


DISAPPOINTMENT.  839 

Carolina,  stretched  its  slight  barriers  across  their  western  horizon, 
and  the  cry  of  'land*  sounded  in  their  ears,  they  rose  from  the 
deeps  of  despondency  into  an  extremity  of  joy.  They  were  in 
ecstasies  of  hope,  and,  in  their  madness  of  heart,  they  forgot  that 
prudence  which  had  hitherto  kept  them  humble  and  cautious. 
Seeing  the  shores  so  nigh,  growing  momently  nearer,  the  great 
trees,  the  verdant  shrubs,  the  quiet  nooks  and  sheltering  places 
for  which  their  fancies  had  so  long  yearned,  they  felt  that  all 
danger,  all  doubt  and  delay  was  at  an  end,  and  all  reserve  and 
secretiveness  were  forgotten.  They  prepared  to  leave  their 
gloomy  prison-ship,  and  to  taste  the  virgin  freedom  of  the  shores. 
Each  began  to  gather  up  his  stores,  and  to  separate  his  little 
stock  of  worldly  good?,  from  the  common  mass.  They  gathered 
their  bales  and  boxes  from  below.  They  strapped  and  un 
strapped  them  ;  and  grouped  themselves  upon  the  decks,  waiting 
to  see  the  anchor  dropped,  and  to  dart  into  the  boats  which  were 
to  carry  them  ashore. 

"  Thus  men  for  ever  cheat  themselves  with  their  hopes,  and 
the  impatience  of  a  single  moment,  will  undo  the  work  of  years. 

"They  were  destined  to  disappointment.  To  their  surprise, 
the  ship  was  suddenly  hauled  off  from  land.  The  sails  were 
backed.  The  shores  receded  from  sight.  They  could  not  land 
that  day.  The  captain  had  his  reasons.  They  were  in  danger 
ous  soundings.  There  were  treacherous  currents.  The  insidi 
ous  rocks  were  about  to  work  them  disaster.  It  was  necessary 
thnt  they  should  seek  a  more  accessible  region  in  which  to  effect 
their  progress  to  the  desired  haven.  These  were  the  grounds 
for  the  movement  which  baffled  their  anticipations  at  the  moment 
of  seeming  certainty. 

"  The  last  feather,  it  is  said,  breaks  the  camel's  back.     It  in 
the  last  drop  of  bitter  poured   in  the  cup  already  full  of  bitter 
ness.     I  can  not  say  that  our  poor  Palatines  were  utterly  broken 
down   by  their   disappointments;    but   it   is  very  sure  that  they 
felt  as  wretched  that  night,  as  they  receded   from  the  land  so 
freshly  won,  as  if  they  were   required  to  begin  their 
Anew.      Of  course,  the  pretexts  i.f  the  master  were  wholly  :. 
He  had  made  his  port.     He   had   reached   his  true   destiu.v 
Had  run  his  proper  course,  and  might  have  landed  all  his  Pala 
tines  that  very  night.     That  he  did  not,  was  due  to  their  own 


#40  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

error  of  policy  —  to  that  wild  eagerness  and  childish  hope,  which 
made  them  heedless  of  a  caution  which  they  had  hitherto  pre 
served  with  a  religious  strictness,  through  long  years  in  which 
they  had  known  nothing  but  the  caprice  of  fortune. 

"  The  careless,  or  the  ostentatious  exhibition  of  their  hitherto 
concealed  treasures,  now  held  to  be  secure,  was  the  true  cause 
of  the  master's  change  of  policy.  His  greedy  eye  had  caught 
golden  glimpses  among  their  luggage.  He  had  seen  the  silver 
vessels  and  the  shining  jewels — he  had  detected  the  value  of 
those  heirlooms  which  had  been  accumulated  and  preserved  by 
the  tribe  of  adventurers,  in  spite  of  the  trials  of  poverty,  through 
long  generations. 

"  These  discoveries  awakened  the  devil  in  his  heart.  His 
was  the  sort  of  honesty  which  kept  steadfast  only  in  the  absence 
of  the  tempter.  He  had,  otherwise,  few  or  no  human  motives 
for  its  exercise.  His  life  had  been  a  reckless  and  a  restless  one, 
and  sober  business  performance  was  only  to  be  pursued  by  way 
of  variety,  and  in  the  absence  of  more  exciting  stimulants.  His 
mate,  or  second  officer,  was  a  person  after  his  own  heart.  To 
him  he  dropped  a  hint  of  his  discoveries.  A  word  to  the  rogue 
is  quite  as  sufficient  as  to  the  wise  man.  It  required  but  few 
words  between  the  two  to  come  to  a  mutual  understanding.  The 
seamen  were  severally  sounded ;  and  the  ship  clawed  off  from 
the  shore. 

"  In  those  days  the  profession  of  piracy  had  no  such  odious 
character  as  it  bears  in  ours.  Successful  piracy  was,  in  short, 
rather  a  creditable  business.  It  was  not  dishonorable,  and  he 
who  practised  it  with  most  profit,  was  likely  to  acquire  from  it 
the  best  credit.  Great  pirates  were  knighted  by  great  kings  in 
tnose  periods.  Witness  the  case  of  the  monster  Henry  Morgan. 
The  bloody  hand  was  rather  a  noble  badge  indeed,  provided  it 
was  shown  at  court y«//-handed.  Then,  as  now,  it  was  only  your 
poor  rogue  who  was  hung  for  making  too  free  with  his  neigh 
bor's  goods.  Piracy  was  legitimated  beyond  the  line,  and  found 
its  national  and  natural  excuse  in  Great  Britain  when  it  could 
prove  that  the  victims  were  only  Spaniards  or  Frenchmen.  Like 
any  other  speculation,  its  moral  depended  wholly  on  its  results. 
We  are  not  to  feel  surprised,  therefore,  at  the  easy  virtue  of  our 
mariners  —  a  peopl"  in  thosr  days,  wlmsr  livrs  and  morals  <K* 


THE   MIDNIGHT   ASSASSINS.  341 

casioned  no  such  respectful  concern  or  consideration  among  the 
pious  as  they  command  in  ours. 

"  The  devil,  accordingly,  found  nothing  to  obstruct  his  machi 
nations  in  the  hearts  of  our  captain  and  his  subordinates.  They 
determined  upon  possessing  the  goods  and  chattels  of  the  poor 
emigrants,  about  whose  fate  the  government  was  hardly  likely 
to  inquire.  Hence  the  sudden  purpose  of  drawing  off  from  the 
shore,  at  the  very  moment  of  landing,  to  the  mortification  and 
final  defeat  of  the  hopes  of  our  simple  and  unsuspecting  Pala 
tines. 

44  It  was  not  found  difficult  to  convince  these  ignorant  people, 
that  the  safety  of  the  vessel  required  these  precautions  —  that 
they  had  erred  somewhat  in  their  reckoning  —  that  they  were 
still  short  of  their  promised  port,  and  that  a  progress  farther 
west  was  necessary.  No  matter  what  the  plea,  it  was  sufficient 
to  silence  complaint  or  murmuring.  They  were  at  the  mercy 
of  the  master,  whether  he  were  pirate  or  honest  mariner,  and  re 
signed  themselves,  with  what  philosophy  they  might,  to  the  de 
cree  that  told  them  of  rolling  a  few  days  longer  on  the  deep. 

44  They  did  not  linger  on  deck  after  night,  and  when  the  shores 
were  no  longer  visible.  The  hope  deterred  which  makcth  the 
In-art  sick,  drove  the  greater  part  of  them  to  their  hammock-. 
Their  baggago,  with  the  unhappily  exposed  wealth,  was  a^ain 
restored  to  tin-  interior  of  the  ship.  Hut  a  few  <•*'  tlie  \  ming  men 
.•«at  upon  the  .leek,  watching  the  faint  lines  ,,f  the  land,  until 
swallowed  up  in  daikness  ;  even  then,  with  eyes  straining  in  the 
direction  of  the  shore  for  which  they  yearned,  conversing  to 
gether,  in  their  own  language,  in  hope  and  confident  expectation 
of  their  future  fortunes. 

14  While  thus   employed,  the  captain  and   his  crew,  in  another 
part  of  the  vessel,  were  concocting   their   fearful    scheme  of  vil 
Inny. 

"  The  hour  grew  late,  the  nipht  deepened  ;  the  few  German* 
who  remained  on  deck,  stretched  themselves  out  where  they 
were,  and  were  soon  composed  in  slumher. 

"  While  thus  they  lay  under  the  peaceful  c..pe  and  can 
heaven,  in  a  slumber,  which  the  solemn  .starlight,  looking  down 
upon,  seemed  to  hallow,  the  merciless  M, urderers,  with  cautious  foot 
step  ;uid    l.ar-  •  upon  them.      The  i-Hbin-  I-M   of  the 


342  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

vessel  had  been  fastened,  the  entrance  closed  to  the  hold.  Each 
seaman  stood  by  his  victim,  and  at  a  given  signal  they  all  struck 
together.  There  was  no  chance  given  for  struggle  —  the  mur 
derers  had  planned  their  crime  with  terrible  deliberation  and 
consummate  skill.  A  spasmodic  throe  of  some  muscular  frame 
—  a  faint  cry  —  a  slight  groan  may  have  escaped  the  victims — 
but  little  more.  At  least,  the  poor  sleepers  below  were  una- 
roused  by  the  event. 

"  The  deck  cleared  of  the  murdered  men,  the  murderers  de 
scended  stealthily  to  the  work  below.  Passing  from  berth  to 
berth  with  the  most  fiendish  coolness,  they  struck — seldom 
twice  —  always  fatally  —  men,  women,  and  children;  the  old, 
the  young,  the  tender  and  the  strong,  the  young  mother  and 
the  poor  angel-innocent  but  lately  sent  to  earth  —  all  perished , 
not  permitted  to  struggle,  or  submitting  in  despair,  incapable  of 
arresting  the  objects  of  the  criminals.  We  may  fancy  for  our 
selves  the  horror  of  such  a  scene.  We  may  imagine  some  one 
or  more  of  the  victims  awaking  under  the  ill-directed  knife  — 
awaking  to  a  vain  struggle  —  unkindly  alarming  those  into  con 
sciousness  who  had  no  strength  for  conflict.  Perhaps  a  mother 
may  have  found  strength  to  rise  to  her  knees,  imploring  mercy 
for  the  dear  child  of  her  heart  and  hope; — may  have  been  suf 
fered  to  live  sufficiently  long  to  see  its  death  struggle,  its  wild 
contortions,  in  the  grasp  of  the  unrelenting  assassin.  Art  may 
not  describe  such  a  scene  truly,  as  imagination  can  hardly  con 
ceive  it.  They  perished,  one  and  all  —  that  little  family  of  em 
igrants;  and  the  murderers,  grouped  around  the  treasures  which 
had  damned  their  hearts  into  the  worst  hell  of  covetousness  and 
crime,  were  now  busied  in  the  division  of  their  bloody  spoils. 

44  How  they  settled  this  matter  among  themselves  —  what  divis 
ion  they  made  of  the  treasure — and  with  what  temper  they 
decided  upon  their  future  course,  must  be  wholly  matter  of  con 
jecture.  Tradition  rarely  deals  with  the  minor  details  of  her 
subject,  though  sufficiently  courageous  always  in  the  conception 
of  leading  events. 

"  The  story  further  goes,  that,  having  done  the  fearful  deed 
without  botching,  thoroughly,  effectively,  suffering  neither  resis 
tance  nor  loss  —  having  possessed  themselves  of  all  that  was 
valu%ble  in  the  ship,  as  well  a»  among  the  stores  of  theii  vie- 


1HK    BIRNIV,     Vi  | 

dins  —  the  pirates  proceeded  to  set  the  vessel  on  fire,  as  the 
safe  mode  for  concealing  all  the  proofs  of  their  crime.  They 
launched  their  boats.  It  was  midnight.  The  night  was  calm 
and  very  Beautiful  —  the  stars  looking  down  with  serene  . 
as  innocently  and  unconsciously,  as  if  there  were  no  guilt,  ami 
shame,  and  murder,  anywhere  visible;  as  if  Death  had  not  yet 
been  born  anywhere  among  the  sons  of  men.  No  voices  in  the 
winds,  no  wail  along  the  sea,  arose  to  startle  the  secret  con 
sciences  of  the  bloody-handed  wretches,  fresh  from  their  cruel 
sacrifice.  They  worked  as  if  Law  and  Love  both  presided 
gratefully  over  their  labors;  and,  with  jest  and  laughter,  and 
perhaps  song,  they  cheerily  toiled  away,  until  their  ill-gotten 
spoils  were  all  safely  transferred  to  the  stowage  of  the  boats. 
They  then  set  the  condemned  vessel  on  fire  — 

"  '  That  fatul  bark, 
Built  in  th*  erlipso,  and  riggM  with  rur«o«  dark  ;' 

and  plied  their  prows  in  the  direction  of  that  shore,  from  the 
opening  harbor  of  which  they  had  withheld  their  longing  vic 
tims.  The  fire,  fed  by  tar  ami  other  combustible  matter,  seized 
in-runtly  on  every  portion  of  the  fabric.  The  pirates  had  made 
their  arrangements  tor  its  destruction,  in  such  a  way  as  to  leave 
no  sort  of  doubt  that  the  ship  would  be  utterly  destroyed.  She 
herself  sufficiently  old  and  combustible.  The  flames  rose 
triumphantly  in  air,  licking  aloft  with  great,  red,  rolling  tongues, 
far  above  the  maintop,  darting  out  to  the  prow,  climbing  along 
spar  and  shuft,  from  stem  to  stern,  from  keel  to  bulwark,  involv 
ing  the  whole  mass  in  inextinguishable  lire.  The  pirates  looked 
with  satisfied  eyes  upon  their  work.  Not  the  deluge  now  should 
arrest  the  conflagration.  The  deep  should  engulf  its  embers! 

14  Vain  hop«  !  The  Providence  still  sees,  though  the  stars 
prove  erring  watchers.  Suddenly,  as  the  receding  criminals 
looked  back,  the  ship  had  ceased  to  blaze  !  The  masts,  and 
spars,  and  sails,  and  cordage,  still  all  alight,  bright  in  fiery 
beauty,  perfect  in  every  lineament,  no  longer  raged  with  the 
fire.  The  flames  hissed  and  spread  no  longer.  The  fiery 

les   no  longer  ascended   like  hissing   serpent^  commi.ss! 
to  destroy.     They  seemed  each  to  sleep,  long  lines  of  red-hot 
glow,  streaks  of  fire,  shrouds  of  fire,  sails  of  fire,  hull  and  masts 


ciOUTHWAKl*    HO  ! 

of  fire,  —  fire  alight  —  of  a  fierce  re.l  Hame  like  that  of  an  August 
sunset  —  but  fire  that  would  not  consume  the  thing  of  which  it 
seemed  to  have  become  the  essential  life ! 

"  What  a  wonder !  what  a  spectacle  !  To  the  murderers,  the 
finger  of  God  was  present.  He  was  present,  beholding  all,  and 
his  judgment  of  fire  was  already  begun. 

"  For  a  moment  every  arm  was  paralyzed.  The  boats  drifted 
idly  on  the  waters.  The  oars  dipped  and  dragged  through 
the  seas,  undirected  by  the  stroke,  until  the  husky  but  harsh 
voice  of  the  captain  startled  them  into  consciousness.  He  was 
a  hardened  sinner,  but  he  too  felt  the  terror.  He  was  simply 
the  first  to  recover  from  his  paralysis. 

"  '  Hell  yawns  !  It  is  hell  we  see  !  Pull  for  dear  life,  men  — 
pull  for  shore.' 

"  And  they  obeyed  ;  and,  fast  as  they  fled,  stoutly  as  they 
pulled  for  land,  they  looked  back  with  horror  and  consternation 
at  the  sight  —  that  terrible  spectacle  behind  them  —  a  ship  all 
lire  that  would  not  burn  —  a  fire  that  would  neither  destroy  its 
object,  nor  perish  itself,  nor  give  out  conce<nling  smokes,  shrouding 
the  form  with  blackness,  —  shrouding  the  dreadful  secret  which 
they  themselves  had  lighted  up  for  the  inspection  of  Heaven. 
Was  God,  in  truth,  presiding  over  that  bloody  deck?  Was  he 
then  penetrating  the  secrets  of  that  murderous  hold  ?  Did  hell 
really  yawn  upon  them  with  its  sulphurous  fires !  Strange, 
indeed,  and  most  terrific  spectacle  ! 

"They  reached  the  land  before  the  dawn  of  day.  They 
drew  their  boats  on  shore  upon  a  lonely  waste,  a  few  miles  only 
from  human  habitations,  but  in  a  region  utterly  wild  and  savage. 
They  had  strength  only  to  reach  the  land  and  draw  the  boats 
on  shore  in  safety.  Then  they  sank  down,  incapable  of  further 
effort,  and  gazed  with  vacant  eyes  upon  the  illuminated  beacon 
of  their  hellish  deeds.  There,  was  a  God  —  there  was  a  hell! 
They  read  Loth  truths,  for  the  first  time  clearly,  in  that  awful 
picture  of  judgment. 

"All  night  thus  did  the  ship  continue  to  glow  with  unconsuming 
brightness.  The  mortal  fires  had  been  extinguished  in  the  super 
natural.  And  thus  articulately  limned  in  phosphoric  brightness, 
the  fatal  ship  sped  to  and  fro,  now  passing  forward  to  the  shore 
upou  which  they  crouched  —  now  suddenly  lost  to  sight,  and 


THE   CHARRED    VESSEL.  845 

reappearing  in  the   east   only  to  resume  the  same  fast  fearful 
toward   the  shore.     At  moments  when  they  lost  her, 
they  breathed  freely  in  a  relieving  sigh,  and  cried  out:  — 

>  — sunk  at  last  —  gone  now  —  gone  for  over  !' 
\  moment  after,  they  would  cry  out  in  horror:  — 

"  '  Hell  !      There  she  is  again  !' 

"A-    :  M  the  night  passed. 

"  With  the  dawning  of  the  day  the  vessel  had  'ceased  to  burn. 
She  was  no  longer  illuminate.  But  she  was  there  still  —  erect 
as  ever — perfect  in  hull,  and  masts,  and  spars,  and  sails,  and 
i-ordage  —  all  unconsumed —  everything  in  its  place,  as  if  she 
were  just  lea\in«r  }"'rt,  —  hut  everything  blackened  —  charred 
to  supernatural  blackness  —  terribly  sable  —  gloomy  ns  death  — 
solemn,  silent,  portentous,  moving  to  and  fro  in  a  never-ceasing 
progress  from  east  to  west. 

"With  fascinated  eyes  the  miserable  murderers  watched  the 
dreadful  spectacle  all  day.  They  ate  nothing.  They  drank 
nothing.  They  had  no  sense  but  in  their  eyes,  and  these  had 
but  the  one  object.  Every  moment  they  watched  to  see  the 
ship  go  down.  When  they  spoke,  it  was  with  this  hope  ;  and 
lien  for  a  moment  the  spectre  vessel  recteuCd  in 
the  east,  they  cried  thi.s  hope  aloud  in  gasping  accents  full 
horrid  joy.  Rut  the  j"\  changed  in  a  moment — as  she  reap 
peared  unite  near  again  —  to  a  despair  more  horrid. 

"  With  the  return  of  ni<_rht  the  terrible  fascination  increased. 
The  Min  went  down  in  beauty;  the  stars  came  out  in  serene 
sweetness;  the  ^ky  was  without  a  rloud.  the  sea  without  a  mur 
mur;  the  winds  slept  upon  the  waves;  the  trees  along  shore 
hung  motionle>s  ;  and  all  gradually  melted  mi.stily  into  the  so 
ber  darkne» —  all  but  the  Mackrned  \esvel.  Suddenly,  she 
brightened.  Suddenly,  they  beheld  the  snaky  lire-  running  up 
the  cordage.  They  wound  ab«»ut  tin-  ma>t>;  they  Mjvtched 
themselves  over  the  canvass ;  they  glared  out  upon  the  hr.-ad 
black  sea  with  a  tlmu.xand  eye*  of  tire  ;  and  the  ship  n^ahi  went 
to  and  fro.  from  east  to  \\  est,  illuminate  in  .supernatural  fire. 
She  bore  down  upon  them  thus,  and  st<n»d  off,  then  prore,  then 
preyed  with  all  canvass  toward  the  beach  upon  which  thev 
crouched,  until  mortal  \\rakness  could  no  linger  endure  the 
tenor.  The  dreadful  horror  could  no  more  be  borne.  The 


346  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

murderers  fled  from  the  shore — fled  to  the  cover  of  the  forest, 
and  buried  themselves  in  the  vast  interior. 

"  According  to  tradition,  the  penalty  of  blood  has  never  been 
fully  paid ;  and  the  rule  of  retributive  justice  requires  that  the 
avenging  fates  and  furies  shall  hang  about  the  lives  of  the  crim 
inals  and  their  children,  unless  expiated  by  superior  virtues  in 
the  progeny,  and  through  the  atoning  mercies  of  the  Savior. 
Hence  the  continued  reappearance,  year  after  year,  of  the  Ship 
of  Fire.  The  immediate  criminals  Feem  to  have  gone  free. 
At  all  events,  tradition  tells  us  nothing  of  their  peculiar  pains 
and  penalties.  Doubtlessly,  Eternal  justice  followed  on  their 
footsteps.  Their  lives  were  haunted  by  terror  and  remorse. 
Horrid  aspects  crowded  upon  their  souls  in  dreaming  hours  and 
in  solitude.  They  lived  on  their  ill-gotten  spoils  to  little  profit ; 
and,  according  to  the  story,  each  year  brought  them  down,  as 
by  a  fearful  necessity,  to  the  seashore,  at  the  very  period  when 
the  spectre  ship  made  her  fiery  progress  along  the  coast.  This 
spectacle,  which  they  were  doomed  to  endure,  kept  alive  and 
for  ever  green  in  their  souls  the  terrible  memory  of  their  crime. 
They  have  all  met  the  common  destiny  of  earth  —  are  all  dead  ; 
for  the  period  of  their  evil  deed  extends  back  long  beyond  the 
usual  limit  of  human  life.  Their  descendants  still  enjoy  the 
fruits  of  their  crime,  and  hence  the  still-recurring  spectacle  of  the 
Ship  of  Fire,  which,  according  to  the  tradition,  must  continue  to 
reappear,  on  the  spot  consecrated  by  the  crime,  until  the  last  de 
scendant  of  that  bloody  crew  shall  have  expiated,  by  a  death  of 
shame  and  agony,  the,  bloody  offences  of  his  miserable  ancestor  " 

Our  North-Carolinian  paused. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  this  Ship  of  Fire  ?"  was  the  question 
of  one  of  the  ladies. 

"  I  have  seen  something  like  it — something  BO  utterly  unac 
countable  otherwise,  under  the  circumstances,  that  I  have  been 
reluctantly  compelled  to  account  for  the  mystery  by  a  reference 
to  the  tradition." 

This  was  said  somewhat  hesitatingly.  The  Alabamian  touched 
the  narrator  on  the  shoulder:  — 

"  I  do  not  censure  your  credulity,  my  dear  young  Turpentine, 
nor  will  I  question  your  belief  in  any  way ;  but  suffer  me  to  coun 
sel,  that,  whatever  you  may  Ix-liove,  you  never  permit  yourself  to 
Eriv«  a  certificate  of  the  f;irt.  Xo  affidavios.  if  you  arc  wise." 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

SP1KIT-\VHISPERI\GS. —  REMINISCENCE. 

THE  thanks  of  our  little  company  were  frankly  given  to  uc:r 
young  North-Carolinian,  who  had  delivered  himself  much  more 
successfully  than  we  were  prepared  to  expect,  from  the  previous 
scenes  in  which  his  simplicity  had  quite  failed  to  suspect  the 
quizzing  of  the  Alabamian.  That  satirical  worthy  joined  in  the 
applause  with  great  good  humor  and  evident  sincerity,  though 
he  could  not  forbear  his  usual  fling  at  the  venerable  North  State. 

"  Yerilv,  tliuu  hast  done  well,  my  young  friend  from  the  em 
pire  of  Terebinth  ;  thou  hast  delivered  thyself  with  a  commend 
able  modesty  and  simplicity,  which  merits  our  best  acknowledg 
ments.  Pray,  suppose  me,  among  the  rest,  to  be  eminently  de 
lighted  and  grateful  accordingly.  That  a  tragedy  so  grave,  and 
so  symmetrical  as  the  one  you  have  told,  could  have  been  coii- 
jured  nut  "f  any  of  the  historical  or  the  traditional  material  of 
North  Carolina,  1  could  scarcely  have  l.flirved.  I  have  been 
plea-rd  to  think  her  genius  too  saturnine  or  phlegmatic  for 
such  conceptions.  If  she  lost  the  phlegm  for  a  moment,  it  was 
to  indulge  in  a  spasmodic  sort  of  cacchinati<>n.  She  relishes  the 
ludicrous  at  times.  Travelling  la^t  .summer  over  her  railroad 
to  the  »M>t.  v.  e  came  to  a  place  called  'Strickland.' 

"'Strickland!'  cries  the  conductor:  and  at  the  word,  an  old 
woman  got  out,  and  a  group  of  smiling  country-girfi  «:«»t  in. 

"'  Strickland,    i:  Bzdaimed    "in-    .Teiuthan    I). -LI.-.,    an 

aged  person  in  a  bn>wn  linen  >-\  erall,  and  with  a  n;outh  fnu; 
to   r:ir.   defiled    ;it     both    extieinities.   \\ith   the   bio\Mie>t   juices  of 
the    weed — •  Stricklan«l,  indeed!    that's  one  of  them   big  v 
they'xe    got  up  now,  to  take    in  ponple    that    don't    kimw.      The 
|ir..ple   all   about    here  calls  the   place   'Tear-Shirt*   and    they 
kain't  be  got  to  1'aru  your  6ne   big  name  for  it.     Strickland's 
quite  too  big  a  mouthful  for  a  corn-cracker.' 


348  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

41  Think  of  the  pathetic  susceptibilities  of  any  people  \v  ho  call 
their  village  '  Tear-Shirt !'  I  could  not  well  believe  it,  and 
knowing  in  what  sort  of  ditch  water  hyperbole  our  common 
sort  of  people  are  apt  to  deal,  I  turned  to  the  fellow  and  said  — 
You  don't  mean  that '  Tear-Shirt'  is  the  real  name  of  this  place  ?' 

"  '  Why  to  be  sure  I  do,'  said  he  '  that's  what  the  people  calls 
it  all  about ;  its  only  the  railroad  folks  that  names  it  '  Strick 
land'; —  and  he  then  told  a  long  cock-and-bull  story  of  a  famous 
fight  in  these  parts,  at  the  first  settling  of  the  place,  in  which 
one  of  the  parties,  though  undergoing  a  terrible  pummelling  all 
the  while  continued  to  tear  the  shirt  wholly  from  the  back  of  his 
assailant ;  and  this  imposing  event,  seizing  upon  the  popular 
imagination,  caused  the  uainuig  of  the  place  —  the  ludicrous 
naturally  taking  much  firmer  hold  with  the  vulgar  than  the  sub 
lime. 

•'  The  most  pathetic  circumstance  that  I  ever  witnessed,  or, 
indeed,  heard  of  in  North  Carolina,  occurred  iu  this  very  region, 
and  on  the  same  occasion.  I  mentioned  that  a  group  of  country 
girls  came  into  the  carts,  at  this  place  of  ragged-linen  cognon—n. 
They  were  pretty  girls  enough,  and  several  beaux  were  in  at 
tendance  ;  and  such  sniggering  and  smiling,  and  chirping  and 
chittering,  would  have  made  Cupid  himself  ache  to  hear  and  wit 
ness,  even  in  the  arms  of  Psyche. 

.  " '  Ain't  you  going  to  take  little  CJiurnjbusco  along  with  you, 
Miss  Sallie  V  demanded  one  of  the  swains,  holding  up  a  pet  pup 
py  to  the  windows  of  the  car. 

"4Ef  they'd  let  me,'  answered  one  of  the  girls;  'but  they'd 
want  me  to  pay  for  his  passage.' 

"'He'll  be  so  sorry  ef  you  leave  him  !'  quoth  the  lover. 

"'Well,  I  reckon,'  responded  the  girl,  pertly  enough,  'he 
won't  be  the  only  puppy  that's  sorry.' 

"'  You're  into  me,  Miss  Sallie  !'  was  the  answer;  '  and  I  shall 
feel  sore  about  the  ribs  for  the  rest  of  the  day.' 

"'I  don't  think,'  answered  the  girl — '1  never  gin  you  credit 
for  any  feeling.' 

"  *  Ah  !  you're  too  hard  upon  a  body  now.' 

'"Well,  I  don't  want  to  be;  for  when  I  think  about  leaving 
Churrybusco,  1  has  a  sorrowful  sort  of  feeling  for  all  leetle  dogs.' 

'"Well,  take  us  both  along.     I'll  pay  for  myself,  and  I  reck- 


.     . 


un  the  conductor  won't  see  C  hurry,  anil   he   wont  $ay  nothing 
ef  he  does.' 

'"  You  think  so?' 

441  I  does.' 

•  •  Well,  hand  him  up  here.     I'll  try  it.' 

•  And,  with  the  words,  the  insignificant  little  monster,  of  gray 
complexion  and  curly  tail,  was  handed  into  the  window  of  the 
car,  and  carefully  snuggled  up  in  the  shawl  of  Miss  Sallie.     Soon 
we    wrre  under  way.      Soon   the  conductor  made  his   appear 
ance  and  received  his  dues.     If  he  saw  the  dog,  he  was  civil 
enough  not  to  seem  to  see.     For  a  few  miles,  the  puppy  and  the. 
damsel  went  on  (juietly  enough.    But  Churrybusco  became  impa 
tient  finally  of  his  wrappings  in  the  mantle,  and  he  scrambled 
out,  first  up«>n  the  M-.tt,  then  upon  the  floor  of  the  car.     Anon, 
we   stopped   tor  a  moment   at   some   depot,  where   twenty-two 
barrels  of  turpentine  were  piled  up  ready  for  exportation.     Here 
Churrybusco  made  his  way  to  the  platform,  and,  just  as  the  car 
was  moving  oft',  a  clumsy  steerage  passenger,  stepping  from  one 
car  to  another,  tumbled  the  favorite  from  the  platform  upon  the 
traek.     Verv  terrible  and  tender  was  the  scream  of  the  young 
lady- 

44  'Churrybusco  !   Churrybusco!      He'.^  killed  !   he's  killed  !' 

44  But  the  whining  and  yelping  puppy  soon  showed  himself 
running  with  all  his  little  legs  in  pursuit  of  the  train,  and  bow- 
wowing  with  pitiful  entreaty  a*  he  ran. 

44  'Stop  the  ear!  stop  the  car!'  cried  the  young  lady  to  the 
conductor  passing  through. 

•44Stop  h  —  1  !    was  the  horrid  answer  »t  the  ruffian. 

44  The  lady  sobbed  ami  begged,  but  the  oh.lurate  monster  was 
not  to  be  moved  by  her  entreaties.  The  damsel  was  whirled 
away,  weeping  all  the  while.  If  you  :i-k  tradition,  it  will  prob 
ably  tell  you  that  the  pup  has  kept  on  running  to  this  day.  «»n 
his  stumps,  as  the  fellow  fought  in  the  «>hl  Knglish  ballad.  The 
whole  scene  was  very  pathetic  -niter  a  fn>hion.  Now,  that  is 
the  most  tragic  adventure  that  I  ever  hnd  in  North  Carolina." 

44  You  may  find  other.-,  more  tragical,"  (ju«>th  uur  North-Caro 
linian,  significantly,  4t  if  you  travel  frequently  on  that  route,  and 
use  your  tongue  as  freely  as  you  d«>  here." 

We  soon  g"t    Lack    to   the   traditions   of   the   great   deep  —  itfl 


3f>0  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

storms  and  secrets.  Our  captain  then  told  the  following  anec 
dote  of  his  own  experience  :  — 

"  You  remember  the  fate  of  the  Pulaski  1  Well,  when  she 
arrived  from  Savannah,  full  of  passengers,  and  took  in  almost  as 
great  a  number  in  the  port  of  Charleston,  the  packet-ship  Sutton, 
which  I  then  commanded,  was  up  for  New  York  also.  The 
Pulaski  was  all  the  rage,  as  she  had  announced  that  she  was  to 
be  only  one  night  at  sea.  My  ship  had  a  large  list  of  her  own 
passengers,  some  of  whom  were  prudent  enough  to  prefer  our 
ancient  slow  and  easy  sailer.  But  two  of  them  were  now  anxious 
to  leave  me,  and  take  the  Pulaski.  Of  course,  I  had  no  objections 
to  their  doing  so ;  I  simply  objected  to  giving  them  back  their 
money.  They  were  not  so  anxious  to  get  on  as  to  make  them 
incur  double  expense  of  passage,  so  they  remained  with  me, 
growling  and  looking  sulky  all  the  way.  Of  course,  my  reso 
lution  saved  their  lives,  but  I  do  not  remember  that  they  ever 
thanked  me  for  having  done  so,  or  apologized  for  their  sulks 
upon  the  way.  But,  curious  enough,  before  they  left  the  port, 
and  while  they  were  clamoring  for  their  discharge,  there  came 
a  gentleman  from  the  interior,  who  had  taken  passage  in  the  Pu 
laski,  and  paid  his  money  to  that  vessel.  He  implored  a  place  in 
my  ship,  giving  as  his  reason  that  he  was  afraid  to  go  in  the 
steamer.  He  was  troubled  with  a  presentiment  of  danger,  and 
preferred  to  forfeit  his  money,  rather  than  lose  his  life.  His 
earnestness  to  get  on  board  the  Sutton,  and  to  escape  the  Pu 
laski,  was  in  amusing  contrast  with  that  of  my  two  passengers 
who  wished  to  escape  from  me.  I  had  no  berth  for  the  stran 
ger,  but  he  insisted.  He  could  sleep  anywhere  —  any  how  — 
and  desired  conveyance  only.  He  was  accommodated,  and  was, 
of  course,  one  of  those  who  escaped  the  danger. 

"  It  so  happened  that  we  had  on  board  the  Sutton  several 
members  of  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  South  Carolina 
families.  A  portion  of  tin*  family,  in  spite  of  the  wishes  of  the 
rest,  had  gone  in  the  Pulaski.  The  steamer,  of  course,  soon 
showed  us  her  heels,  and  the  Sntlon  went  forward  as  slowly  as 
the  most  philosophical  patience  could  desire.  We  had  light 
and  baffling  winds  —  nothing  to  help  us  forward  —  but  no  bad 
weather.  The  long-sided  coast  of  North  Carolina  stretched 
away,  never  ending  in  length,  for  days  upon  our  quarter.  A* 


MYSTERIOUS    VOICES.  361 

length,  by  dint  of  patience  rather  than  wind,  we  reached  that 
latitude  in  which  the  1'ulaski  had  Mown  up  four  days  before. 
Wr  must  have  boon  very  nearly  over  the  very  spot,  as  we  dis 
covered  by  calculation  afterward.  Of  course  we  were  wholly  in 
ignorance  of  the  terrible  catastrophe. 

1  That  evening,  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  Carolina  family  I 
have  mentioned,  came  to  me,  and  said  that  he  had  heard  < 
of  distress  and  meanings,  as  of  some  persons  upon  the  water.  I 
immediately  set  watches  about  the  vessel,  examined  as  well  as 
I  might  myself,  but  could  neither  hear  nor  see  any  object  be 
yond  the  ship.  He  again  heard  the  noises,  and  again  I  watched 
and  examined.  He  was  excited  necessarily,  and  I  greatly  anx 
ious.  With  the  first  dawn  of  morning  I  was  up  in  the  rigging, 
and  sweeping  the  seas  with  my  glass.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen. 
We  had  no  special  fears,  no  apprehensions.  There  seemed  no 
reason  for  apprehension.  None  of  us  thought  of  the  Fulaski. 
She  was  a  good  seaboat,  and,  saving  the  presentiment  of  the 
one  passenger,  who  did  not  again  speak  of  the  scruples  ho  bad 
expressed  on  shore,  there  were  not  only  no  apprehensions  en 
tertained  of  the  steamer's  safety,  but  our  passengers,  many  of 
them,  were  all  the  while  regretting  that  they  had  not  gone  in 
her.  We  never  heard  of  her  fate,  or  suspected  it,  till  we  took 
our  pilot,  off  Sandy  Hook.  Now,  what  do  you  say  of  the  warn 
ing  criea  which  were  heard  by  the  one  gentlemen,  whose  kins 
men  in  the  Pulaski  were  all  lost.  Four  days  before,  they  were 
perishing,  without  help,  in  that  very  spot  of  sea.  The  presenti 
ment*  of  the  one  passenger,  before  we  started,  the  signs  mani- 
d  to  another  after  the  terrible  event,  arc  .surely  s>«jir.ewh*t 
curious,  as  occurring  in  the  case  of  this  single  ship.  1  think 
that  I  am  as  little  liable  to  superstition*  fears  and  fancies  as  any 
body  present,  and  vrt.  these  things,  \\ith  a  thi>u>and  others  in 
my  sea  experience,  have  satisfied  me  to  believe  with  Hamlet, 
that 

•"TlnTi-  in.-  more  l!         li      (!•   i'-        :i:nl  Earth, 
Than  HP-  ilp-nm--<|  of  in  nur  i-h:!.'«<,j.hv.'  " 

Once  open  the  way  for  the  supernatural,  and  it  is  surprising 
what  a  body  of  testimony  you  can  procure.  Most  people  are 
sensitive  to  ridicule  on  this  subject,  and  will  rarely  deliver  the 
•ecretA  of  their  prison  houbc  to  other  ears,  unless  the  cue  hu 


352  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

been  first  given  to  the  company  by  one  bolder  than  the  rest.  Our 
captain's  anecdote  led  to  a  variety  of  experiences  and  revela 
tions,  at  the  close  of  which,  one  of  the  party,  being  reminded  of 
his  appointment  as  next  raconteur,  bestowed  the  following  dark 
fancy-piece  upon  us,  which  he  assured  us  was  woven  in  the 
world  of  dreams,  and  was,  in  most  respects,  a  bonajidc  report  of 
a  real  experience  in  the  domain  of  sleep  :  — 

THE  WAGER  OF  BATTLE. 

A  TA1.ROF  THE  FEUDAL  AGES. 

C  H  A  I*  T  E  K    I. 

THE  analysis  of  the  dreaming  faculty  has  never  yet  been 
made.  The  nearest  approach  to  it  is  in  our  own  time,  and  by 
the  doctors  of  Phrenology.  The  suggestion  of  a  plurality  of 
mental  attributes,  and  of  their  independence,  one  of  the  other, 
affords  a  key  to  some  of  the  difficulties  of  the  subject,  without 
altogether  enabling  us  to  penetrate  the  mystery.  Many  diffi 
culties  remain  to  be  overcome,  if  we  rely  upon  the  ordinary 
mo.'les  of  thinking.  My  own  notion  is,  simply,  that  the  condition 
of  sleep  is  one  which  by  no  means  affects  the  mental  nature.  I 
tilink  ir  probable  that  the  mind,  accustomed  to  exercise,  thinks 
I»H,  however  deep  may  be  the  sleep  of  the  physical  man  ;  that 
the  highest  exercise  of  the  thinking  faculty — -that  which  involves 
the.  imagination  —  is,  perhaps,  never  more  acutely  free  to  work 
out  its  problems  than  when  unembarrassed  by  the  cares  and 
anxieties  of  the  temperament  and  form ;  and  that  dreaming  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  habitual  thought,  apart  from  the  or 
dinary  restraints  of  humanity,  of  which  the  memory,  at  waking, 
retains  a  more  or  less  distinct  consciousness.  This  thought  may 
or  may  not  have  been  engendered  by  the  topics  which  IKU  e  im 
pressed  or  interested  us  during  the  day  ;  but  this  is  not  necessary 
nor  is  it  inevitable.  We  dream  precisely  as  we  think,  with  sug 
gestions  arising  to  the  mind  in  sleep,  spontaneously,  as  they  do 
continually  when  awake,  without  any  special  provocation  ;  and 
our  dreams,  in  all  probability,  did  not  our  memory  fail  IKS  at 
awaking,  would  possess  that  coherence,  proportion  and  mutual 
relation  of  parts,  which  the  ordinary  use  of  the  rati"oin*tivO 


THK    NI.;HT    I'KiKl'KCT.  858 


faculties  requires.  I  have  no  sort  of  doubt  tliat  the  sleep  of  the 
physical  man  may  he  perfect,  even  while  the  mind  is  at  work,  in 
a  high  state  of  activity,  and  even  excitement.  in  its  mighty  store 
house.  Tlie  eye  may  he  shut,  the  ear  close.  1,  the  tongue  sealed, 
the  ta<te  inappreciative,  and  the  nerves  of  touch  locked  up  in 
the  fast  embrace  of  unconsciousness,  while  thought,  fancy,  im 
agination,  comparison  and  causality,  are  all  husy  in  the  most  keen 
inquiries,  and  in  the  most  wonderful  creations.  Hut  my  purp-isp 
is  n«>t  now  to  insist  upon  these  phenomena,  and  my  speculations 
are  only  meant  properly  to  introduce  a  vision  of  my  own  ;  one 
if  those  wild,  strange,  foreign  fancies  which  sometimes  so  unex- 
•-•dly  people  and  employ  our  slumbers  —  coherent,  seemingly, 
in  all  its  parts,  yet  as  utterly  remote  as  can  well  be  imagined 
from  the  topics  of  daily  experience  and  customary  reflection. 

I  had  prohably  hern  asleep  a  couple  of  hours,  when  I  was 
Fwakenei!  with  some  oppressive  mental  .sensation.  I  was  con 
scious  that  I  had  hern  dreaming,  and  that  I  had  seen  a  crowd 
of  persons,  either  in  long  pn>cessj(,n.  ,-r  engaged  in  some  great 
state  ceremonial.  Hut  of  the  particulars  —  the  place,  the  parties 
the  purple.  or  the  period,  —  I  had  not  the  most  distant  recollec 
tion.  I  was  conscious.  however,  of  an  excited  puke,  and  of  a 
feeling  so  NftieMi  as  made  me,  for  a  moment,  fancy  that  I  had 

r.  Such,  however,  was  not  the  case.  1  lose,  threw  on  my 
robe  df  chamtirc,  and  went  to  the  window.  Tin-  moon  was  in 
her  meridian  ;  the  whole  landscape  was  llickering  with  the  light 
•ilvery  haze  with  which  she  carpeted  her  pathway.  From  the 
glossy  surface  of  the  orange  leaver  immediately  heneath  the 
window,  glinted  a  thousand  diamond-like  points  of  inexpressible 

'itne.ss  ;  while  over  all  the  fields  wa-  spi»-ad  a  fleecy  softneM, 
that  w;»s  (loul.lv  pure  and  delicate  in  contact  with  the  sombre 
foliage  of  the  great  forest,  to  the  very  foot  of  which  it  stretched. 
There  \\  as  nothing  in  the  MM  btfort  me  that  was  n,,t  at  once 
gentle  and  beautiful;  nothing  which,  by  the  most  remote 
nection,  could  possihh  an  idea  c*f  darkness  or  of  terror. 

I  gazed  upon  the  scene  only  for  a  few  moments.  The  night  was 
cold,  and  a  sudden  shivering  dullness  which  it  sent  through  all 
my  frame,  counselled  me  to  get  back  to  bed  with  all  possible  ex 
pedition.  I  did  so,  but  was  not  successful  in  wooing  the  return 


354  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

of  those  slumbers  which  had  been  so  unusually  banished  from 
mine  eyes.  For  more  than  an  hour  I  lay  tossing  and  dissatisfied, 
with  my  thoughts  flitting  from  subject  to  subject  with  all  the 
caprice  of  an  April  butterfly.  When  I  again  slept,  however,  I 
was  again  conscious  of  a  crowd.  A  multitude  of  objects  parsed 
in  prolonged  bodies  before  my  sight.  Troops  of  glittering  forms 
then  occupied  the  canvass,  one  succeeding  to  the  other  regularly, 
but  without  any  individuality  of  object  or  distinct  feature.  Hut 
I  could  catch  at  intervals  a  bright  flash,  as  of  a  plume  or  jewel, 
of  particular  size  and  splendor,  leading  me  to  the  conviction  that 
what  I  beheld  was  the  progress  of  some  great  state  ceremonial, 
or  the  triumphal  march  of  some  well-appointed  army.  Hut 
whether  the  procession  moved  under  the  eagles  of  the  Roman, 
the  horse-tails  of  the  Ottoman,  or  the  lion  banner  of  England,  it 
was  impossible  to  ascertain.  I  could  distinguish  none  of  the  en 
signs  of  battle.  The  movements  were  all  slow  and  regular. 
There  was  nothing  of  strife  or  hurry  —  none  of  the  clamor  of 
invasion  or  exultation  of  victoiy.  The  spectacle  passed  on  with 
a  measured  pomp,  as  if  it  belonged  to  some  sad  and  gloomy  rite, 
where  the  splendor  rather  increased  the  solemnity  to  which  it 
was  simp^  tributary. 

CHAPTER    II. 

THE  scene  changed  even  as  I  gazed.  The  crowd  had  disap 
peared.  The  vast  multitude  was  gone  from  sight,  and  mine  eye, 
which  had  strained  after  the  last  of  their  retreating  shadows, 
now  dropped  its  lids  on  vacancy.  Soon,  however,  instead  of  the 
great  waste  of  space  and  sky,  which  left  me  without  place  of  rest 
for  sight,  I  beheld  the  interior  of  a  vast  and  magnificent  hall, 
most  like  the  interior  of  some  lofty  cathedral.  The  style  of  the 
building  was  arabesque,  at  once  richly  and  elaborately  wrought, 
and  sombre.  The  pointed  arches,  reached  by  halt-moon  involu 
tions,  with  the  complex  carvings  and  decorations  of  cornice, 
column,  and  ceiling,  at  once  carried  me  hack  to  those  wondrous 
specimens  which  the  art  of  the  Saracen  has  left  rather  for  our 
admiration  than  rivalry.  The  apartment  was  surrounded  by  a 
double  row  of  column*;  slender  shafts,  which  seemed  rather  the 
antenna?  of  graceful  plants  than  bulks  and  bodies  of  stone  ami 
marble,  rising  for  near  fifty  feet  in  height,  then  gradually 


II IK    I'KTDAL    I'AI    |  355 

spreading  in  numerous  caryatides,  resembling  twisted  and  un 
folding  serpents,  to  the  support  of  the  vast  roof.  All  appearance 
ut'  bulk,  of  cumhrousiies.s,  even  of  strength,  seemed  lo>t  in  tin* 
elaborate  delicacy  with  which  these  antenna-  stretched  them 
selves  from  .side  to  side,  uniting  the  several  arche>  in  span-  i»f 
tlie  most  airy  lightness  and  heauty.  The  givat  root'  for  \\  Inch 
they  furnished  the  adequate  snj;j»ort,  m>e  tpO  high  in  the  hut 
partial  light  which  tilled  tin-  hall,  to  enable  me  to  gather  in. .re 
than  an  imperfect  idea  of  its  eharacter  and  workmanship.  Hut 
of  its  great  height  the  very  incapacity  to  define  its  character  at' 
d  me  a  sufficient  notion.  Where  the  light  yielded  the  de.sired 
opportunity,  I  found  the  tlo\\  ery  beauty  of  the  architecture.  ,.n 
v  hand,  to  be  alike  inimitable.  To  describe  it  \\ould  be  im- 
;bh'.  A  tliousand  extjui.site  points  of  light,  the  slenderest 
beams,  seemed  to  depend,  like  so  many  icicles,  from  arch  and 
elevation  —  to  fringe  the  several  entrances  and  windows  —  to 
hang  from  every  beam  and  rafter;  and  to  ru-t  over  all,  an  ap 
pearance  so  peifcctly  aerial,  as  to  make  me  doubtful,  at  moments. 
whether  the  immense  interior  which  1  saw  them  span,  with  the 
massive  but  dusky  ceiling  which  they  were  inteiide  1  to  sustain, 
were  not,  in  fact,  a  little  world  of  wood,  with  the  blue  sky  dimly 
overhead,  a  realm  of  vines  Mini  tl<>\\ers.  with  poli.sheil  woodland 
shafts,  lavishly  and  artfully  accumulated  in  the  open  air. 
to  produce,  in  an  imperfect  light,  a  dclusi\  e  appearanee  of  archi 
tectural  weight,  magnificence  and  majesty.  An  immense  avenue, 
formed  of  columns  thus  embraced  and  bound  together  by  the 
most  elaborate  and  fantastic  carvings,  linked  vines,  binighs, 
flowers  and  serpent.-,  opened  before  me,  rondin  ting  tli« 
through  tar  vista*  of  the  same  des» -ription,  thus  continuing  the 
impression  of  cathedral  avenue-  -.  The  uiled 

along  these  j»a->.-a^e.-.  wandered  into  other.-  ijuite  as  iiit«'iininable, 
with  fre<|uent  gliiiipHo*  into  lateral  range>  <|U  tc  ..s  \\  ..n.i«-iful  and 
ample,  until  the  dim  peispective  \\  as  shut,  not  beranx-  ,,l  tl,,. 
tennuiAtion  of  the  pa— age.  tml  I  MIMM  "f  the  painful  inability 
in  the  sight  anyfuither  to  pursue  it.  Kac  h  of  these  a\  «-nues 
had  its  dec. .rations,  .-imilaily  rlaboiate  and  om.ite  uith  the  n-t 
of  the  interior.  Vine-  and  llo\\  n-.  -tar*  and  \\  reath-.  croH868 
ami  circle..- — \\ith  -ui-h  \ariet  \  of  form  and  color  as  the  ka,. 
scope  only  mignt  product  »»i  emulation  of  the  fancy  —  \\i-ie  «11 


356  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

present,  but  symmetrically  duplicated,  so  as  to  produce  an  equal 
correspondence  on  each  side,  figure  answering  to  figure.  But 
these  decorations  were  made  tributary  to  other  objects.  Numer 
ous  niches  opened  to  the  sight,  as  you  penetrated  the  mighty 
avenue,  in  which  stood  noble  and  commanding  forms;  —  statues 
of  knights  in  armor;  of  princes;  great  men  who  had  swayed 
nations ;  heroes,  who  had  encountered  dragons  for  the  safety  of 
the  race ;  and  saintly  persons,  who  had  called  down  blessings 
from  heaven  upon  the  nation  in  the  hour  of  its  danger  and  its 
fear.  The  greater  number  of  these  stood  erect  as  when  in  life ; 
but  some  sat,  some  reclined,  and  others  knelt ;  but  all,  save  for  the 
hue  of  the  marble  m  which  they  were  wrought — so  exquisite 
was  the  art  which  they  had  employed  —  would  have  seemed  to 
be  living  even  then.  Around  the  apartment  which  I  have  been 
describing,  were  double  aisles,  or  rather  avenues,  formed  by  sister 
columns,  corresponding  in  workmanship  and  style,  if  not  in  size, 
with  those  which  sustained  the  roof.  These  were  deep  and 
sepulchral  in  shadow,  but  withal  very  attractive  and  lovely 
places ;  retreats  of  shade,  and  silence,  and  solemn  beauty ; 
autumnal  walks,  where  the  heart  which  had  been  wounded  by 
the  shafts  and  sorrows  of  the  world,  might  rly,  and  be  secure, 
pud  where  the  form,  wandering  lonely  among  the  long  shadows 
of  grove  and  pillar,  and  in  the  presence  of  noble  and  holy  images 
of  past  worth  and  virtue,  might  still  maintain  the  erect  stature 
which  belongs  to  elevated  fancies,  to  purest  purposes,  and  great 
designs  for  ever  working  in  the  soul. 

But  it  would  be  idle  to  attempt  to  convey,  unless  by  general 
ities,  any  definite  idea  of  the  vast  and  magnificent  theatre,  <T  of 
that  singular  and  sombre  beauty  with  which  I  now  found  myself 
surrounded.  Enough,  that,  while  I  was  absorbed,  with  my  whole 
imagination  deeply  excited  by  the  architectural  grandeur  which 
I  surveyed,  I  had  grown  heedless  of  the  progress  of  events 
among  certain  human  actors  —  if  I  may  be  thus  permitted  to  des 
ignate  the  creatures  of  a  vision  —  which  had  meanwhile  taken 
their  places  in  little  groups  in  a  portion  of  the  ample  area. 
While  mine  eyes  had  heen  uplifted  in  the  contemplation  of  things 
inanimate,  it  appears  that  a  human  action  was  in  progress  on  a 
portion  of  the  .-<vne  below.  1  was  snddenlv  aroux-d  by  a  >tir 
and  bustle,  followed  by  a  faint  murmur,  as  of  applauding  voices, 


THE   SOVEREIGN.  357 

which  at  length  reached  my  cars,  and  diverted  my  gaze  from  tlio 
remote  and  lofty,  tn  the  rirli  tesselated  pavement  of  tlie  apart 
ment  If  the  mere  splendor  of  tin-  structure  had  so  fastened 
upon  my  imagination,  what  can  I  say  i.f  the  scene  which  now 
commanded  my  attention  !  There  was  tin-  pomp  <»f  courts,  the 
pride  of  majesty,  the  glory  of  armor,  tin  md  charm  of 

aristocratic  heauty.  in  all  her  plumage,  to  make  me  forgetful  of 
all  other  display.  I  now  heheld  groups  of  nohle  p.-rsons,  clad 
in  courtly  dresses,  in  knightly  armor,  salde  and  purple,  with  a 
profusion  of  gold  and  jewels,  rich  scarfs,  and  plumes  ..f  sn: 
sing  splendor.  Other  groups  presented  me  with  a  most  imposing 
vision  of  that  gorgeous  church,  whose  mitred  prelates  could  place 
their  fret  upon  the  necks  of  mightiest  princes,  and  s\\av,  for  good 
or  evil,  the  destinies  of  conflicting  nations.  There  were  priests 
clad  in  flowing  garments,  courtiers  in  silks,  and  nohlest  dames, 
who  had  v.vayed  in  courts  from  immemorial  time.  Their  long 
and  rustling  trains  were  npl.orne  by  damsels  and  pages,  lovely 
enough,  and  richly  enough  arrayed,  to  he  apt  ministers  in  the 
^  erv  courts  of  Love  himself.  A  chair  of  state,  massive,  and 
richly  draped  in  purple  and  gold,  with  golden  insignia,  over  which 
hung  the  jeweled  tiara  of  sovereignty,  was  raised  upon  a  ilaix 
some  five  feet  nhove  the  level  of  the  crowd.  This  was  filled  hy 
a  tall  and  sh-nder  person,  to  whom  all  made  obeisance  as  to  an 
imperial  master.  He  was  hahited  in  salde,  a  single  jewel  upon 
his  hrow.  hearing  up  a  massi\(.  shock  of  feathers  as  Mack  and 
glossy  as  if  wrought  out  of  sparkling  coal.  The  air  of  ma; 
in  his  action,  the  hahitual  command  upon  his  hrow,  left  me  in  no 
douht  of  his  sovereign  state,  even  had  the  oln-isance  of  the  mul 
titude  heen  w.mting.  Hut  he  looked  not  as  if  long  destined  to 
hold  sway  in  mortal  provinces.  His  person  \\  a>  meagre.  M  if 
wasted  hy  disease.  Hi-  checks  \\ere  pale  and  holh-w  ;  while  a 
peculiar  brightness  of  the  eyei  shone  in  painful  contrast  uith  the 
pale  and  ghastly  coh.r  of  hi>  face.  Hehind  his  chair  stood  one 
vho  evidently  held  the  jmsition  of  a  favorite  and  trusted  coun 
sellor.  H.  irai  magnificently  hahited  with  a  profusion  of  jrwels, 
which  nevertheless  added  hut  little  to  the  nohle  air  and  exquisite 
symmetry  of  his  perton.  At  intervals  he  could  he  seen  to  hend 
over  to  :  f  the  prince,  as  if  whispoing  him  in  >eciet. 

This    show    of   intimacy,    if    phsisini:    to    his    -uperior.    was    vot 


358  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

evidently  of  different  effect  upon  many  others  in  the  assembly 
The  costume  of  the  place  was  that  of  the  Norman  sway  in  Eng 
land,  before  the  Saxons  had  quite  succeeded,  —  through  the 
jealousy  entertained  by  the  kings,  of  their  nobles,  —  in  obtaining 
a  share  of  those  indulgences  which  finally  paved  the  way  to 
their  recognition  by  the  conquerors.  Yet,  even  in  this  respect 
of  costume,  I  was  conscious  of  some  discrepancies.  Some  of  the 
habits  worn  were  decidedly  Spanish  ;  but  as  these  were  mingled 
with  others  which  bore  conclusive  proof  of  the  presence  of  the 
wearers  in  the  wars  of  the  Crusades,  it  was  not  improbable  that 
they  had  been  adopted  as  things  of  fancy,  from  a  free  com 
munion  of  the  parties  with  knights  of  Spain  whom  they  had 
encountered  in  the  Holy  Land. 

But  I  was  not  long  permitted  to  bestow  my  regards  on  a  sub 
ject  so  subordinate  as  dress.  The  scene  was  evidently  no  mere 
spectacle.  Important  and  adverse  interests  were  depending  — 
wild  passions  were  at  work,  and  the  action  of  a  very  vivid  drama 
was  about  to  open  upon  me.  A  sudden  blast  of  a  trumpet  pene 
trated  the  hall.  I  say  Hunt,  though  the  sounds  were  faint  as  if 
subdued  by  distance.  But  the  note  itself,  and  the  instrument 
could  not  have  been  mistaken.  A  stir  ensued  among  the  spec 
tators.  The  crowd  divided  before  an  outer  door,  and  those  more 
distant  bent  forward,  looking  in  this  direction  with  an  ea^cr  anx 
iety  which  none  seemed  disposed  to  conceal.  They  were  not 
long  kept  in  suspense.  A  sudden  unfolding  of  the  great  valves 
of  the  entrance  followed,  when  a  rush  was  made  from  without. 
The  tread  of  heavy  footsteps,  the  waving  of  tall  plumes,  and  a 
murmur  from  the  multitude,  announced  the  presence  of  other 
parties  for  whom  the  action  of  the  drama  was  kept  in  abeyance. 
The  crowd  opened  from  right  to  left,  and  one  of  the  company 
stood  alone,  with  every  eye  of  the  vast  assemblage  fixed  curi 
ously  upon  his  person. 

CHAPTKR    III. 

AND  well,  apart  from  every  consideration  yet  to  be  developed, 
might  they  gaze  upon  the  princely  form  that  now  stood  erect, 
and  with  something  approaching  to  defiance  in  his  air  and  man 
ner,  in  the  centre  of  the  va>?  a-enihlagc.  lie  *»£  habited  in 


THE   TRAITOR    PP.TNTF. 

••haiii  armor,  the  admirable  work,  in  all  probability,  of  the  shops 
i»t  Milan.  This,  though  {tainted  «>r  stained  thoroughly  black,  yet 
threw  out  a  glossy  lustre  of  incredible  brightness.  I'pon  liis 
hrea<t.  a*  if  the  luve  token  of  some  noble  damsel,  a  broad  scarf 
of  the  most  delicate  hlue  was  seen  to  float.  A  cap  of  velvet, 
with  a  double  loop  in  front,  hearing  a  very  large  brilliant  from 
wliicli  rose  a  bunch  of  sable  pinmes,  was  discarded  from  his 
brows  the  moment  that  he  stood  within  the  royal  presence.  He 
stood  for  a  brief  space,  seeming  to  survey  the  scene,  then  ad 
vanced  with  a  bold  and  somewhat  rapid  step,  as  if  n  natural  spirit 
of  fearlessness  bad  been  stimulated  into  eagerness  by  a  con 
sciousness  ..f  wrong1  and  a  just  feeling  of  indignation.  His  face 
scarcely  le-s  noble  than  his  form  and  manner,  but  it  was 
marked  by  angrv  passions  —  was  red  and  swollen  —  and  as  he 
passed  onward  to  the  foot  of  the  throne,  he  glanced  fiercely  on 
either  hand,  as  if  seeking  for  an  enemy.  In  spite  of  the  tea; 
Mil  ..f  hiv  pngveM,  I  could  now  perceive  that  he  was  under 
constraint  ami  in  dure  — ••.  A  -fnmg  body  of  halberdier-  c 
upon  his  course,  and  evidently  stood  prepared  and  watchful  of 
his  everv  movement.  As  he  approached  the  throne,  the  sever*! 
groups  gave  way  befoi--  him,  and  he  stood,  with  unobstructed 
vision,  in  the  immediate  pre-mce  of  the  monarch.  For  an  in 
stant  he  remained  erect,  with  a  mien  unsubdued  and  almost 
haughty,  while  a  low  murmur  —  as  I  fancied,  of  indignation  — 
in  various  portions  of  the  hall.  The  face  of  the  king  him 
self  seemed  suddenly  flu-lied,  and  a  livelv  play  of  the  muscles 
of  hi-  countenance  led  me  to  believe  that  he  was  about  to  give 
utterance  to  his  anger:  but.  at  this  moment,  the  stranger  sunk 
•  •fully  but  proudly  upon  his  knee.  and.  bending  hi*  forehead, 
with  a  studied  humility  in  his  prostration,  disarmed,  if  it  had  h«-«"i 
felt,  the  indignation  of  hi-.  I  This  done,  he  n>-e  to  his 

feet  with  a  manly  ease,  and  stood  silent,  in  an  attitude  of  expec 
tation,  but  with  a  calm,  martial  erectness,  as  rigid  as  if  cut  from 
the  inflexible  rock. 

Thr    kiii'_r    spoke,  but    the    words  were    inaudible   to   my  ear- 
Then-  was  a  murmur  from  vari<>u-  parts  of  the  assembly.      Sev 
eral    voices    followed    that  of  the    monarch,  but  of  these  I   could 
not  comprehend  the  purport.      I  could  only  judge  of  the  charac 
ter  of  what  was  said  by  its  startling  effect  upon  th«  If 


360  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

excited  before,  he  seemed  to  be  almost  maddened  now.  H'R 
eyes  followed  the  murmuring  voices  from  side  to  side  of  the  as 
sembly,  with  a  fearful  flashing  energy,  which  made  them  dilate, 
as  if  endangering  the  limits  of  their  reddened  sockets.  A  like 
feverish  and  impatient  fury  threw  his  form  into  spasmodic  action. 
His  figure  seemed  to  rise  and  swell,  towering  above  the  rest. 
His  arms  were  stretched  in  the  direction  of  the  assailing  voices. 
His  clenched  fist  seemed  to  threaten  the  speakers  with  in 
stant  violence.  Unintimidated  by  the  presence  in  which  he 
stood,  his  appearance  was  that  of  a  subject,  not  only  too  strong 
for  his  superior,  but  too  confident  and  presumptuous  for  his  own 
self-subjection,  even  in  the  moment  of  greatest  peril  to  himself. 

He  resumed  his  composure  at  last,  and  the  murmur  ceased 
around  him.  There  was  deep  silence,  and  the  eyes  of  the  stran 
ger  were  fixed  rigidly  upon  those  of  his  prince.  The  latter  was 
evidently  moved.  His  hand  was  extended  —  something  he  spoke. 
which  I  again  lost ;  but,  strange  to  say,  the  reply  of  the  stranger 
came  sharply  and  distinctly  to  my  ear. 

"Swear!  Why  should  I  swear?  Should  I  call  upon  the 
Holy  Evangel  as  my  witness,  when  I  see  not  my  accuser  ?  Let 
him  appear.  Let  him  look  me  in  the  face,  if  there  be  lord  or 
knight  in  this  assembly  so  bold,  and  tell  me  that  I  am  guilty  of 
this  treason.  Sire !  I  challenge  my  accuser.  I  have  no  other 
answer  to  the  charge!" 

CHAPTER     IV. 

THE  lips  of  the  king  moved.  The  nobleman  who  stood  be 
hind  his  throne,  and  whom  I  conceived  to  be  his  favorite,  bent 
down  and  received  bin  orders  ;  then  disappeared  behind  one  of 

tin-  columns  whose  richly-decorate'l.  but  slender  shafts,  rose  up 
directly  behind  him,  like  some  graceful  steins  of  the  forest,  over 
which  the  wildering  vine,  and  the  gaudy  parasite  clambers  with 
an  embrace  that  kills.  But  a  few  moments  elapsed  when  the 
favorite  reappeared.  He  was  accompanied  by  a  person,  whose 
peculiar  form  and  aspect  will  deserve  especial  description. 

In  that  hall,  in  the  presence  of  princes,  surrounded  hy  knights 
and  noltles  of  the  proudest  in  the  land,  the  person  newly  come — 
though  seemingly  neither  knight  nor  noble — was  one  of  the  most 


THK    MAMCIAN.  861 

lofty  in  his  carriage,  and  most  imposing  and  impressive  in  his 
h">k  and  manner.  He  was  not  only  taller  than  the  rare  of  men 
in  general,  but  be  was  obviously  taller  than  any  in  that  select 
circle  hy  which  he  was  surrounded.  Nor  did  his  features  mis- 
beseem  his  person.  These  were  singularly  nolde,  and  of  Italian 
cast  and  character.  His  lace  *ai  large,  and  of  the  most  perfect 
oval.  Though  that  of  a  man  who  had  probably  seen  and  suffered 
under  sixtv  winters,  it  still  him-  the  proofs  of  a  beauty  once 
remarkable.  It  still  retained  a  youthful  freshness,  which  spoke 
for  a  conscience  free  from  remorse  and  self-reproach.  UN 
\\eiv  ,.f  a  mild,  but  holily  expressive  blue;  and  beneath  their 
rather  thin  white  brows,  were  declarative  of  more  than  human 
benevolence.  His  fun-head  was  very  large  and  lofty,  of  great 
breadth  and  compass,  in  the  regions  of  ideality  and  sublimity, 
as  well  as  cau-.ilitv;  while  his  hair,  thick  still,  and  depending 
from  behind  his  head  in  numerous  waving  curls,  was.  like  his 
heard,  of  the  mo>t  silvery  whiteness.  ThU  WM  spread,  massive- 
1\,  upon  his  breast,  which  it  covered  almost  to  the  waist.  His 
complexion  was  very  pale,  but  of  a  clear  whiteness,  and  harmo 
nized  sweetly  with  the  antique  beauty  and  power  of  his  head. 
lli>  costume  differed  in  style,  texture  and  stutV,  entirely  from 
that  which  prevailed  in  the  assembly.  A  loose  white  robe,  \\hich 
•Xtoftded  fioiu  his  .shoulders  to  the  ground,  was  hound  about  his 
bodv  by  a  belt  of  plain  Spanish  leather,  and  worn  with  a  grace 
and  noldenes-  perfectly  majestieal.  His  feet  \\  ere  clothed  iu 
.Jewish  sandals.  Hut  then-  \\  as  nothing  proud  or  haughty  in  his 
majesty.  <  >n  the  contrary.it  was  in  omtrast  with  the  evident 
humility  in  his  eye  and  gesture,  that  his  of  bearing  be 

trayed  itself.  Thi-  seemed  to  be  as  much  the  fruit  of  pure  and 
elevated  thoughts,  calm  and  RMg  I  that  Miperior  physical 

organi/atiou  which  made    thi-   aged  man  t..\\er  as  greatl\    | 
the  rest,  in   [  :d\  did  in  air  ami  iuai.:  • 

He  advanced,  as  he  appeare-i.  to  the  f.,..t  uf  the  th: 
fullv  sunk  I'ftore    it,  then  lising,  stood    in    ijuiet.  ns   awaiting  tlu- 
royal    command    to    speak.      II  nice  seemed    to  till    the 

•Heinidy  with  eager  curiosity.  A  sudden  hush  prevailed  a*  he 
approached,  the  natural  result  of  that  a\\e  \\hich  gieat  superior 
ity  usually  inspire.--  in  the  breast  <>|  ignorance.  There  was  but 
one  face  amoug  the  spectators  that  bcemed  to  betray  no  curiosity 

16 


3f>2  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

as  he  came  in  si^ht.  This  was  that  of  the  accused.  With  the 
first  coming  of  the  ancient  man,  I  had  instinctively  fixed  my 
gaze  upon  the  countenance  of  the  nobleman.  I  could  easily 
discern  that  his  lips  were  compressed  as  if  by  sudden  effort, 
while  his  usually  florid  features  were  covered  with  a  momentary 
paleness.  This  emotion,  with  the  utter  absence  of  that  air  of 
curiosity  which  marked  every  other  visage,  struck  me,  at  once, 
as  somewhat  significant  of  guilt. 

"Behold  thy  accuser!"  exclaimed  the  sovereign. 

"  He  !  the  bookworm !  — the  dreamer !  —  the  madman !  —  sor 
cerer  to  the  vulgar,  but  less  than  dotard  to  the  wise  !  Does  your 
majesty  look  to  a  star-gazer  for  such  evidence  as  will  degrade 
with  shame  the  nobles  of  your  realm  ?  Sire  !  —  if  no  sorcerer, 
this  old  man  is  verily  distraught!  He  is  lunatic  or  vile  —  a 
madman,  or  a  bought  servitor  of  Satan  !" 

The  venerable  man  thus  scornfully  denounced,  stood,  mean 
while,  looking  sorrowful  and  subdued,  but  calm  and  unruffled,  at 
the  foot  of  the  dais.  His  eye  rested  a  moment  upon  the  speaker, 
then  turned,  as  if  to  listen  to  that  speech,  with  which  the  favor 
ite,  behind  the  throne  of  the  monarch,  appeared  to  reply  to  the 
language  of  the  accused.  This  I  did  not  hear,  nor  yet  that 
which  the  sovereign  addressed  to  the  same  person.  But  the 
import  might  be  divined  by  the  answer  of  the  ace-used. 

"And  1  say,  your  majesty,  that  what  he  hath  alleged  is  false 
—  all  a  false  and  bitter  falsehood,  devised  by  cunning  and  malice 
to  work  out  the  purposes  of  hate.  My  word  against  his  —  my 
gauntlet  against  the  world.  I  defy  him  to  the  proof !  I  defy  all 
my  accusers !" 

"  And  he  shall  have  the  truth,  your  majesty,"  was  the  firm, 
clear  answer  with  which  the  venerable  man  responded  to  this 
defiance.  His  tones  rang  through  the  assembly  like  those  of  a 
sweet  bell  in  the  wilderness. — "  My  life,  sire,  is  sworn  to  the 
truth!  1  can  speak  no  other  language.  That  I  have  said 
nothing  falsely  «.f  this  lord,  I  invoke  the  attestation  of  the  Lord 
of  all.  1  have  had  his  sacred  volume  brought  into  this  presence 
You  shall  know,  sire,  what  I  believe,  by  what  I  swear!" 

He  made  a  step  aside.  even  while,  lie  spoke.  to  a  little  girl  whom 
I  had  not  before  seen,  l>ut  wh«»  had  evidently  followed  him  intc 
the  assembly.  She  now  approached,  bearing  in  her  hands  one 


TI1K     \<  *   !  --\Tinv.  368 

rtf  those  finely  illuminated  manuscripts  of  an  early  day  of  '  'hris- 
tian  history  in  Kurope.  which  are  now  worth  their  we^ht  in 
g^)ld.  I  could  just  perceive,  as  lie  opened  the  ma-she  fohiine, 
by  its  heavy  metallic  cla-ps.  tliat  the  characters  were  strange, 
and  readily  conjectured  them  to  he  Hebrew.  The  work,  from 
what  he  said,  and  the  use  to  which  lie  applied  it.  I  assumed  to 
be  the  Holy  Scriptures.  He  received  it  reverently  from  the 
child,  placed  it  deliberately  upon  one  of  the  steps  of  the  /A//.v, 
then  knelt  he  fore  it,  his  venerable  head  for  a  moment,  being 
bowed  to  the  very  floor.  Then  raisini:  hi*  eyes,  hut  without 
rising  from  his  position,  he  placed  one  hand  upon  this  volume. 
raided  the  other  to  heaven,  and,  with  a  deep  and  solemn  Voice, 
called  upon  (iod  and  the  H..ly  Kvanirelists,  to  witness  that  what 
he  had  spoken,  and  was  about  to  speak,  was  "  the  truth,  and  the 
truth  only  —  spo  ken  with  no  malice  --  no  wicked  or  evil  intent 
—  and  rather  to  defeat  and  prevent  the  evil  designs  of  the  per 
son  he  accused."  In  this  posture,  and  thus  affirming,  h<'  pro 
ceeded  t<>  declare  that  "  the  accused  had  applied  to  him  for  a 
potent  poison  which  should  have  the  power  of  usurping  life 
sln\\]y.  and  without  producing  any  of  those  striking  effects  upon 
the  outward  man.  as  would  induce  suspicion  of  criminal  practice." 
II. •  added,  with  other  particulars  that  "the  accused  had  invited 
him,  under  certain  temptations,  which  had  been  succeeded  by 
threats,  to  become  one  of  a  party  to  his  designs,  the  victim  of 
which  was  to  be  his  majesty  then  sitting  upon  the  throne." 

CHAPTER    V. 

Si  .  U  was  the  tenor  of  the  asseverations  which  he  made,  for 
tified  by  numerous  details,  all  tending  -tnni^Iy  to  confirm  the 
truth  of  his  accusations,  his  own  testimony  once  hcin^  relied  on. 
There  was  something  so  noble  in  this  man's  action,  so  delicate* 
so  impressive.  Ml  limpfe,  vet  so  «;raud  ;  and  tin-  particulars  which 
he  j^rave  were  all  so  prohahlv  arraved.  so  well  put  together,  and 
••emingly  in  continuation  of  other  circumstances  drawn  from 
the  testimony  of  other  parties,  that  all  around  appeared  fully 
impressed  with  the  most  perfect  conviction  that  his  accusation 
was  justly  made  A  short  but  painful  silence  followed  his  nar 
ration,  which  seemed,  for  an  instant,  to  confound  the  guilty  no- 


3t)4  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

ble.  The  sad  countenance  of  the  monarch  deepened  to  seventy 
while  a  smile  of  triumph  and  exultation  rose  to  that  of  the  favor- 
ite  behind  his  throne.  At  this  sight  the  accused  person  recov 
ered  all  his  audacity.  With  half-choking  utterance,  and  features 
kindling  with  fury  rather  than  faltering  with  fear,  he  demanded, 

"Am  I  to  be  heard,  your  majesty  .'" 

A  wave  of  the  monarch's  hand  gave  him  the  desired  permis 
sion,  and  his  reply  burst  forth  like  a  torrent.  He  gave  the  lie 
to  his  accuser,  whom  he  denounced  as  an  impostor,  as  one  who 
was  the  creature  of  his  and  the  king's  enemies,  and  tampering, 
himself,  with  the  sovereign's  life  while  pretending  to  minister  to 
his  ailments.  He  ridiculed,  with  bitterness  and  scorn,  the  notion 
that  any  faith  should  be  given  to  the  statements,  though  even 
)ffered  on  oath,  of  one  whom  he  affirmed  to  be  an  unbeliever 
*nd  a  Jew ;  and,  as  if  to  crown  his  defence  with  a  seal  no  less 
ftnpressive  than  that  of  his  accuser,  he  advanced  to  the  foot  of 
the  throne,  grasped  the  sacred  volume  from  the  hands  by  which 
it  was  upheld,  and  kneeling,  with  his  lips  pressed  upon  the 
opened  pages,  he  imprecated  upon  himself,  if  his  denial  were 
not  the  tnith,  all  the  treasured  wrath  and  thunder  in  the  stores 
of  Heaven  ! 

The  accuser  heard,  with  uplifted  hands  and  looks  of  holy  hor 
ror,  the  wild  and  terrible  invocation.  Almost  unconsciously  his 
lips  parted  with  the  comment : — 

"  God  have  mercy  upon  your  soul,  my  lord,  for  you  have 
spoken  a  most  awful  perjury  !" 

The  king  looked  bewildered,  the  favorite  behind  him  dissatis 
fied,  and  the  whole  audience  apparently  stunned  by  equal  incer 
titude  and  excitement.  The  eyes  of  all  parties  fluctuated  be 
tween  the  accused  and  the  accuser.  They  stood  but  a  few  paces 
asunder.  The  former  looked  like  a  man  who  only  with  a  great 
struggle  succeeded  in  controlling  his  fury.  The  latter  stood  sor 
rowful,  but  calm.  The  little  girl  who  had  brought  in  the  holy 
volume  stood  before  him,  with  one  of  his  hands  resting  upon  her 
head.  Her  features  greatly  resembled  his  own.  She  looked 
terrified  ;  her  eyes  fastened  ever  upon  the  face  of  her  father's 
enemy  with  a  countenance  of  equal  curiosity  and  suspicion. 
Some  conversation,  the  sense  of  which  did  not  reach  me.  now 
ensued  between  the  king  and  two  of  his  counsellors,  to  which 


THE    GA(;K    OF    BATTLE. 

hi.s  favorite  w;»s  a  party.     The  former  again  addressed  the  ac 
cuser. 

••  Have  you  any  other  testimony  but  that  which  you  yourself 
offer  of  tlie  truth  of  your  accusation. 

"  N<>nr,  your  majesty.  I  have  no  witness  of  my  truth  but 
God,  and  it  is  not  for  vain  man  to  prescribe  to  him  at  what  sea- 
his  testimony  should  be  given.  In  bringing  this  accusa 
tion,  my  purpose  was  not  the  destruction  of  the  criminal,  but  the 
safety  of  my  sovereign  ;  and  I  am  the  more  happy  that  no  con 
viction  can  now  follow  t'roin  my  charge,  as  from  the  dreadful 
oath  which  he  has  just  taken,  he  places  it  out  of  the  power  of 
human  tribunal  to  resolve  between  us.  For  the  same  reasons, 
he  is  in  no  condition  to  suffer  death  !  Let  him  live  !  It  is 
enough  for  me  that  your  majesty  is  safe  from  the  present,  and 
has  been  warned  against  all  future  danger  at  his  hands." 

"  But  not  enough  for  me  !"  cried  the  accused,  breaking  in  im 
petuously.  "I  have  been  charged  with  a  foul  crime  ;  1  must 
free  n-v  <cutehe».n  from  the  shame.  1  will  not  rest  beneath  it. 
If  this  Jewish  sorcerer  hath  no  better  proof  than  his  own  false 
tongue,  I  demand  from  your  majesty  the  wager  of  battle  !  I,  too, 
invoke  God  and  the  blessed  Jesu,  in  testimony  of  my  innocence, 
enemv  hath  slandered  me;  I  will  wash  out  the  slander 
with  his  blood  !  1  demand  the  trial,  sire,  his  arm  against  mine. 

iing  to  the  laws  and  custom  «.f  this  realm." 

"  It  can  not  be  denied  !"  was  the  cry  from  many  \nices.  Tin- 
favorite  looked  grave  and  troubled.  The  eyes  of  the  king  \\ere 
fixed  sadly  upon  the  venerable  accuser.  The  latter  >ecmcd  to 
understand  the  expression. 

"1  am  not  a  man  of   blood,  your   majesty.      Strife    hath    long 
banished  from  thin  bosom  ;    carnal  weapons  have  long  been 
discarded  from   these  hands." 

"Let  him  find  a  champion!"  was  the  tierce  an-wer  of  tin- 
accused. 

"And  of  what  avail  to  me."  returned  the  accuser.  M  the  brute 
valor  of  the  hireling  who  -,-lU  tor  wages  the  strength  of  his  man 
hood,  and  perils  for  gain  the  -atetv  of  his  life.  Little  >h«nild  I 
hope  from  the  skill  of  .such  M  he.  opposed  in  combat  to  one  of 
the  greatest  warriors  of  the  realm." 

"  Ah,  sorcerer  !    tlmu   fearest  !"  was  the  exulting  cry   of  the 


366  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

accused;  "but,  if  thy  cause  ho  that  of  truth,  as  thou  hast  chal- 
1  on  prod  the  Most  High  to  witness,  what  hast  thou  to  fear?  The 
>tars  which  thou  searchest  nightly,  will  they  not  do  battle  in 
thy  behalf?" 

"  Methinks,"  said  the  favorite,  who  now  advanced  from  behind 
the  throne,  "  methinks,  old  man,  thou  hast  hut  too  little  reliance 
on  the  will  and  power  of  God  to  assist  thee  in  this  matter.  It  is 
for  him  to  strengthen  the  feeblest,  whore  he  is  innocent,  and  in 
the  ranks  of  war  to  do  successful  battle  with  the  best  and 
bravest,  Is  it  not  written,  '  The  race  is  not  always  to  the  swift, 
nor  the  triumph  to  the  strong!'" 

"  Ah  !  do  I  not  know  this,  my  lord  ?  Do  not  think  that  T  ques 
tion  the  power  of  the  Lord  to  do  marvels,  whenever  it  becomes  his 
will  to  do  so  ;  hut  who  is  it,  believing  in  God's  might  and  mercy, 
that  flings  himself  idly  from  the  steep,  with  the  hopo  that  an  an 
gel's  wings  shall  ho  sent  to  bear  him  up.  I  have  been  taught  by 
the  faith  which  T  profess,  to  honor  the  Lord  our  God,  and  not  to 
tempt  him  ;  and  1  do  not  readily  believe  that,  we  may  command 
the  extraordinary  manifestations  of  his  power  by  any  such  vain 
and  uncertain  issue  as  that  which  you  would  now  institute.  I 
believe  not  that  the  tnith  is  inevitably  sure  to  follow  the  wager 
and  trial  of  battle,  nor  will  I  lean  on  the  succor  of  any  hireling 
weapon  to  avouch  for  mine." 

"  It  need  be  no  hireling  sword,  old  man.  The  brave  and  the 
noble  love  adventure,  for  its  own  sake,  in  the  paths  of  danger  ; 
and  it  may  bo  that  thou  shalt  find  some  one,  even  in  this  assem 
bly,  noble  as  him  thou  accusost,  and  not  less  valiant  with  his 
weapon,  who,  believing  in  thy  truth,  shall  bo  willing  to  do  bat 
tle  in  thy  behalf." 

"Thyself,  perchance!"  cried  the  accused,  impetuously,  and 
turning  a  fiery  glance  upon  the  speaker.  In  this  glance  it 
s.MMned  to  me  that  I  could  discover  a  far  greater  degree  of  bit 
terness  and  hate  than  in  any  which  he  had  shown  to  his  accuser. 
"  It  is  thyself  that  would  do  this  battle  ?  Ha  '  them  art  he,  then, 
equally  noble  and  not  less  valiant,  art  thou?  Be  it  so!  It  will 
rejoice  me  shouldst  thou  venture  thy  body  in  this  quarrel.  Hut 
I  know  thee  —  thou  Invest  it  to.,  well — thou  durst  not." 

"Cli'iMM-  me  for  thv  champion,  old  man,"  was  the  further 
speech  of  the  favorite,  with  a  difficult  effort  to  be  calm.  "  1  will 


THK    «,1.<>VK. 

do  battle   for  thee,'and  with  (;..d'>   mercy,  sustain   the  right    in 
thy  behalf." 

••  Thou  shall  not !"  exclaimed  the  king,  vehemently,  but  feebly, 
half  rising  as  he  spoke,  and  turning  to  the  favorite.  "  Thou 
shalt  not!  I  command  thee  mix  not  in  this  matter." 

More  was  said,  but  in  such  a  feeble  tone  that  it  failed  to 
reach  my  senses.  When  the  king  grew  silent,  the  favorite 
bowed  with  submissive  deference,  and  sunk  again  behind  the 
throne.  A  scornful  smile  passed  over  the  lips  of  the  accused, 
who  looked,  with  a  bitter  intelligence  of  gaze,  upon  a  little  group 
seemingly  his  friends  and  supporters,  who  had  partly  grouped 
themselves  around  him.  i-'.dlowing  his  glance,  a  moment  after 
toward  the  royal  person,  I  was  attracted  by  a  movement,  though 
fora  single  instant  only,  of  the  uplifted  hand  of  the  favorite.  It 

a  sign  to  the  accuse.!,  the  former  withdrawing  the  L 
from  his  right  hand,  a  moment  after,  and  Hinging  it,  with  a  sig 
nificant  action,  to  the  floor  behind  him.  The  accused,  \\  hi>pered 
a  page  hi  waiting,  who  immediately  stole  away  and  disappeared 
from  sight.  But  a  little  while  elapsed  when  I  beheld  him  ap- 
.  -h  the  sjH.t  where  the  glove  had  fallen,  recover  it  adroitly, 
and  convey  it,  unperceived,  into  his  bosom.  All  this  by-play, 
though  no  doubt  apparent  to  many  in  the  assembly,  was  evi 
dently  unseen  and  unsuspected  by  the  king.  I  infeired  the  rank 
luxuriance  of  the  practice  of  chivalry  in  this  region,  from  the 
nicety  \\ith  which  the  afVair  was  conducted,  and  the  forbearance 
of  all  those  by  whom  it  had  been  \\itnes.-ed,  to  make  any  report 
of  what  they  had  beheld.  The  discussion  was  resumed  by  the 

•'  1  am  aware,  your  majesty ,  that  by  the  laws  and  practice  of 
your  realm,  the  wager  of  battle  is  one  that  may  be   freely  chal 
lenged  by  anv  MHO  Accused  of  treason,  «.r  other  crime  against  the 
utate,  against  whom  there   shall    be  no  \\itne.ss   but  th. 
It   is  not    the  fear  of  danger  which  makes   me  unwillin. 
this  conflict;    it  is  the  fear  of  doing  \\rong.      Though  the    issues 
of  battle  urn   in  the,  hand*  of  the    I  Hit   shall    persuade 

me  that  he    has    decreed    the    coinhat    t««  take  place.       Nou    I    do 
confess  that    1   regard  it  as  unholy,  ;ii,\    invocation  of  t: 
Peace,  to  be    a  witness  in  a  strife  which  his  belle:  t«ach 

U8  to  abhor — a   strife    i;r"-slv  at  variance  with    his  most    settled 
and  divine  ordinances." 


868  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"  I  am  grieved,  old  man,  to  hear  you  speak  this  language, '' 
was  the  grave  censure  of  one  who,  from  his  garments,  seemed 
to  be  very  high  in  authority  and  the  church.  "  What  thou  say 
est  is  in  direct  reproach  of  holy  church,  which  has  frequently 
called  in  the  assistance  of  mortal  force  and  human  weapons  to 
put  down  the  infidel,  to  crush  the  wrong-doer,  and  to  restore 
that  peace  which  can  only  owe  her  continued  existence  to  the 
presence  ever  of  a  just  readiness  for  war.  Methinks  thou 
hast  scarcely  shown  thyself  enough  reverent  in  this  thy  hold 
opinion." 

"  Holy  father,  I  mean  not  offence  !  I  do  not  doubt  that  war, 
with  short-sightedness  of  human  wisdom,  has  appeared  to  hccnrc 
the  advantages  of  peace.  I  believe  that  God  has  endowed  us 
with  a  strength  for  the  struggle,  and  with  a  wisdom  that  will 
enable  us  to  pursue  it  with  success.  These  we  are  to  employ 
when  necessary  for  the  protection  of  the  innocent,  and  the  res 
cue  and  safety  of  those  who  are  themselves  unwilling  to  do 
harm.  But  I  am  unwilling  to  believe  that  immortaJ  princi 
ples —  the  truth  of  man,  and  the  value  of  his  assurance* — are 
to  depend  upon  the  weight  of  his  own  blows,  or  the  address  with 
which  he  can  ward  off  the  assaults  of  another.  Were  this  the 
case,  then  would  the  strong-limbed  and  brutal  soldier  be  always 
the  sole  arbiter  of  truth,  and  wisdom,  and  all  moral  government." 

We  need  not  pursue  the  argument.  It  has  long  since  been 
settled,  though  with  partial  results  only  to  humanity,  as  well  by 
the  pagan  as  the  Christian  philosopher.  But,  however  inge 
nious,  true,  or  eloquent,  was  the  venerable  speaker  on  this  occa 
sion,  his  arguments  were  entirely  lost  upon  that  aiwnihly.  He 
himself  soon  perceived  that  the  effect  was  unfavorable  to  his 
cause,  and  exposed  his  veracity  to  question.  With  a  proper 
wisdom,  therefore,  he  yielded  promptly  to  the  current.  But 
first  he  asked  :  — 

"  And  what,  may  it  please  your  majesty,  if  I  decline  this 
ordeal  ?'' 

"Death  !"  was  the  reply  of  more  than  one  stern  voice  in  the 
assembly.  "Death  by  fire,  by  the  burning  pincers,  by  the 
tortures  of  the  screw  and  nick." 

The  venerable  man  replied  calmly. 

"Life  is  a  duty!     Life  is   precious!"     He   spoke  musingly, 


THE   GAGE  TAKEN   UP.  369 

looking  down,  as  he  spoke,  upon  the  little  girl  who  stood  beside 
him,  while  tlu»  big  tours  gathered  in  his  eyes  as  he  gazed. 

••  1  >••  \oii  demand  a  diampi-.n  ?"    was  the  inquiry  of  the  king 

•  N  It',  in  hehalf  of  my  trntli,  this  battle  must  be 

fought,  its  dangers  must  be  mine  only." 

••  Thim* !"  exclaimed  the  favorite. 

44  Ay,  my  lord  —  mine.  None  other  than  myself  must  encoun 
ter  this  peril." 

A  murmur  of  ridicule  passed  through  the  assembly.  The 
accused  laughed  outright,  as  the  exulting  warrior  laughs,  with 
hi>  captive  naked  beneath  his  weapon.  A  brief  pause  followed, 
and  a  visible  anxietv  prevailed  among  the  audience.  Their 
ridicule  afforded  to  the  accuser  sufficient  occasion  for  reply  :  — 

"  This  murmur  of  surprise  and  ridicule  that  I  hear  on  every 
hand,  is  of  itself  a  sufficient  commentary  upon  this  trial  of  truth 
by  the  wager  of  battle.  It  seems  to  all  little  less  than  madness, 
that  a  feeble  old  man  like  myself,  even  though  in  the  cause  of 
right,  should  oppose  himself  to  the  most  valiant  warrior  in  the 
kingdom.  Yet,  it'  it  be  tnie  that  God  will  make  himself  mani- 
-ue.  what  matters  it  whether  I  be  old  or  young, 
strong  or  weak,  well-skilled  or  ignorant  in  arms  ?  If  there  be  a 
just  wisdom  in  this  mode  of  trial,  the  feeblest  rush,  in  main 
tenance  of  the  truth,  were  mighty  against  the  steel-clad  bosom 
of  the  bravest.  I  take  the  peril.  I  will  meet  this  hold  criminal, 
nothing  fearing,  and  will,  in  my  own  person,  en^a.i:'1  in  the  hat- 
tie  which  is  thus  forced  upon  me.  But  1  know  not  the  use  of 
lance,  or  ->\\ord,  or  battle-axe.  These  weapons  are  foreign  to 
my  hands.  Is  it  pennitted  me  to  use  such  implements  of 
:<•••  as  my  own  skill  and  understanding  may  invent,  and  1 
may  think  proper  to  emplo \ 

"ThoU  shall  use  no  evil  arN.  old  man."  exclaimed  the  church 
man  who  had  before  spoken,  anticipating:  the  answer  of  the 
monarch.  "No  sorcerv.  no  charms  no  spells,  no  accursed  de 
vices  of  Satan.  I  warn  thee.  if  tlum  art  found  guilty  of  arts 
like  these,  tlum  shah  surely  perish  by  In." 

41  None  Of  these,  holy  father,  -hall  1  employ.  I  -iiall 

be  those  ouly.  the  principh •-  .,t  which  1  shall  proclaim  to  thy 
self,  or  to  anj  noble  gentleman  of  the  kind's  household.  My 
weapons  shall  be  those  onlv  which  a  human  intelligence  may 


370  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

prepare.  They  belong  to  the  studies  which  I  pursue — to  the 
same  studies  which  have  enabled  me  to  arrive  at  truths,  some 
of  which  thou  thyself  hast  been  pleased  to  acknowledge,  and 
which,  until  I  had  discovered  them,  had  been  hidden  from  the 
experience  of  men.  It  can  not  be  held  unreasonable  and  un 
righteous  that  I  employ  the  weapons  the  virtues  of  which  I 
know,  when  my  enemy  uses  those  for  which  he  is  renowned  ?" 

Some  discussion  followed,  the  demand  of  the  accuser  being 
strenuously  resisted  by  the  friends  of  the  accused. 

"  The  weapons  for  knightly  encounter,'  said  they,  "  have 
long  since  been  acknowledged.  These  are  sword,  and  battle- 
axe,  and  spear." 

"  But  I  am  no  knight,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  and  as  it  is  permit 
ted  to  the  citizen  to  do  battle  with  staff  and  cudgel,  which  are 
his  wonted  weapons,  so  may  it  be  permitted  to  me  to  make  use 
of  those  which  are  agreeable  to  my  strength,  experience,  and 
the  genius  of  my  profession." 

Some  demur  followed  from  the  churchman. 

"  Holy  father,"  replied  the  accuser,  "  the  sacred  volume  should 
be  your  guide  as  it  is  mine.  My  claim  is  such  as  seems  already, 
in  one  famous  instance,  to  have  met  the  most  decisive  sanction 
of  God  himself." 

Here  he  unfolded  the  pages  of  the  Holy  Scriptures. 

"  Goliah,"  said  he,  "  was  a  Philistine  knight,  who  came  into 
battle  with  the  panoply  of  his  order.  David  appeared  with 
staff,  and  sling,  and  stone,  as  was  proper  to  the  shepherd.  He 
rejected  the  armor  with  which  Saul  would  have  arrayed  him  for 
the  combat.  The  reproach  of  the  Philistine  knight  comprises 
the  objection  which  is  offered  here  —  'Am  1  a  dog,'  said  Goliah, 
'that  thou  comest  to  me  with  staves?'  The  answer  of  David, 
O  king !  shall  be  mine  :  '  And  all  this  assembly  shall  know  that 
the  Lord  saveth  not  with  sword  an«l  spear;  for  the  battle  is  the 
Lord's,  and  he  will  give  you  into  our  hands.'  Such  were  his 
words  —  they  are  mine.  God  will  deliver  me  from  the  rage  of 
mine  enemy.  I  will  smite  him  through  all  his  panoply,  and  in 
spite  of  shield  and  spear." 

He  Hjmke  with  a  momentary  kindling  of  his  eyes,  which  was 
•oon  succeeded  by  an  expression  of  sadness. 

"  And  yet,  O  king !   I  would  be  spared  this  trial.     My  hear* 


THK    I'HII.nsoPHER'S   CELL. 

loves  not  strife.  Mv  soul  shrinks  in  horror  from  the  sheddinp 
of  human  blond.  Require  not  this  last  proof  nt  my  hands. 
Suffer  me  to  keep  my  conscience  white,  and  clear  of  this  sacri 
fice.  Let  this  unhappy  man  live  ;  tor  as  surely  as  we  strive 
together,  so  surely  must  he  perish." 

44  Now  this  pasxeth  all  belief,  as  it  passeth  all  human  endu 
rance!"  exclaimed  the  accused  with  irrepressible  indignation. 
11  I  claim  the  combat.  ()  kinp,  on  any  condition.  Let  him  come 
as  he  will,  with  what  weapons  he  may,  though  forgod  in  the 
very  armory  of  Satan.  My  talisman  is  in  the  holy  cross,  and 
the  pood  sword  buckled  at  my  thiph  by  the  holiest  prince  in 
Christendom,  will  not  fail  me  against  the  devil  and  all  his  works. 
I  demand  the  combat !" 

"  Be  ye  both  ready  within  three  days!"  said  the  king. 

44  I  submit,"  replied  the  aped  man.  4<  I  trust  in  the  mercy  of 
God  to  sustain  me  apainst  this  trial,  and  to  acquit  me  of  its 
awful  consequences." 

44  Ready,  ay,  ready  !"  was  the  answer  of  the  accused,  as  with 
his  hand  he  clutched  fiercely  the  handle  of  his  sword,  until  the 
steel  rang  apain  in  the  iron  scabbard. 

CHAPTER     VII. 

TIIK  scene  underwent  a  sudden  chanpe,  and  I  now  found 
myself  in  a  small  and  dimly-liphted  apartment,  which  seemed 
_-ned  equally  for  a  studio  and  a  laboratory  of  art.  The 
walls  were  surrounded  by  enormous  cases,  on  the  shelves  of 
which  were  massive  scrolls  of  vellum,  bupe  parchment  manu 
scripts,  and  volumes  fastened  with  clasps  of  bra**  and  -ilver. 
Some  of  theso  lay  open.  Charts  hunp  wide  marked  with  strange 
characters.  Frame*  of  ebony  were  Mm*  suspi-nded  n\«>  hearinp 
the  <ipnv:  of  the  /.odiac.  Other  furniture,  of  quaint  and  straiiire 
fashion.  x«-«-med  t<>  s)i«.w  cnnclu<ivelv  that  the  pos^-xs  ,r  j,ir 
the  Deductive  science  of  astrolopy.  He  had  other  jiursiiits  —  A 
small  funiace.  the  coals  of  which  were  ipnited.  occupied  one  cor 
ner  of  the  chamber,  near  which  stood  a  table  r-.vered  with 
retorts  and  receivers,  cylinder*  and  paupinp-pl.i^ev.  .-uul  all  the 
other  paraphernalia  which  ii«uaJlv  >)»-lonp  to  the  analytic  worker 
in  chemistry.  The  old  man.  and  the  ynwip  pirl  described  in 


872  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

the  previous  scene,  were.  at  tii>t,  the  only  occupants  of  the 
apartment.  Bat  a  few  moments  ('lapsed,  however,  when  an 
inner  door  was  thrown  open,  and  a  third  party  appeared,  closely 
enveloped  in  a  cloak  of  sable.  This  he  threw  aside,  and  1  dis 
covered  him  to  be  the  same  person  who  had  been  the  chief  coun 
sellor  of  the  king,  and  whom  I  supposed  to  be  his  favorite.  At 
his  entrance  the  damsel  disappeared.  The  stranger  then,  some 
what  abruptly,  began  in  the  following  manner:  — 

"  Why.O  why  did  yon  not  choose  me  for  your  champion  T* 

"And  why,  my  lord,  expose  you  to  a  conflict  with  one  of  the 
bravest  warriors  in  all  the  realm  ?" 

"  He  is  brave,  but  I  fear  him  not ;  besides,  he  who  fights 
against  guilt  hath  a  strength  of  arm  which  supplies  all  deficien 
cies.  But  it.  is  not  too  late.  I  may  still  supply  your  place." 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  lord,  but  I  have  made  my  election." 

"  Alas,  old  man,  why  are  you  thus  obstinate  ?  He  will  slay 
you  at  the  first  encounter." 

"  And  if  he  does,  what  matter !  I  have  but  a  brief  space  to 
live,  according  to  the  common  allotment.  He  hath  more,  which 
were  well  employed  devoted  to  repentance.  It  were  terrible, 
indeed,  that  he  should  be  hurried  before  the  awful  tribunal  of 
Heaven  with  all  the  blackness  in  his  soul,  with  all  his  sins 
unpurged,  upon  his  conscience." 

"  Why,  this  is  veriest  madness.  Think  you  what  will  follow 
your  submission  and  defeat?  He  will  pursue  his  conspiracy. 
Others  will  do  what  you  have  refused.  He  will  drag  other 
and  bitter  spirits  into  his  scheme.  He  will  bring  murder  into 
our  palaces,  and  desolation  into  our  cities.  Know  yon  not  the 
man  as  I  know  him  ?  Shall  he  be  suffered  to  escape,  when  the 
hand  of  God  has  clearly  shown  you  that  his  purposes  are  to  be 
overthrown,  and  his  crime  to  be  punished  through  your  agrncy." 

"  And  it  shall  be  so,  my  dear  lord.  Tt  is  not  my  purpose  to 
submit.  The  traitor  shall  be  met  in  battle." 

"But  by  thyself?     Why  not  a  champion  *      I  am  ready." 

"  Greatly  indeed  do  I  thank  and  honor  thee,  my  lord  ;  but  it 
can  not  be." 

"  Methinks  there  is  some  touch  of  insanity  about  tl old 

man,  in  spite  of  all  thy  wisdom.  Thou  canst  not  hope  to  con 
tend,  in  sooth,  against  this  powerful  warrior.  He  will  hurl  thee 


THK  c.\ in.    \Ni»    ill:.':   <,i:  LNDBIRB.  373 

to  tlie  earth  with   the  first  thrust  of  his  heavy  lance  ;  or  smite 
thee  down  to  death  with  a  single  hl«»w  <>f  battle  axe  or  dagger." 

"  Hear  me,  my  lord,  and   have  no  tear.     Thou   knowep.t  not 
the  terrihle    powers  vhich    I    possess,  nor  shonld   any  know,  but 
that  this  iiecoMtv  compels  me  to  euijdoy  then).      I  will  slay  my 
enemy  and  thine.     He  can  not  harm  live.      He  will   perish  help 
les,l\-  .  .,•  his  weapon  shall  he  twiee  lifted  to  affront  me." 

"  Thou  meanest  not  to  employ  sorcery  ?" 

"Be,  a-ured.  my  lord,  I  shall  use  a  carnal  agent  only.  The 
instrument  which  1  shall  take  with  me  to  h.ittle,  though  of  ter 
rible  and  destructive  power,  shall  be  as  fully  blessed  of  Heaven 
as  any  in  your  mortal  armory." 

"  Be  it  so  !  I  am  glad  that  thou  art  so  confident-  and  y«t; 
let  me  entreat  th-e  to  trust  thy  battle  to  my  hands." 

"No,  my  dear  lord,  no!  To  thee  there  would  be  danger — 
to  mo,  none.  I  thank  thee  for  thy  goodness,  and  will  name  thee 
in  my  prayers  to  Heaven." 

\\V  need  not  pursue  their  dialogue,  which  was  greatly  pro 
longed,  and  included  much  other  matter  which  did  not  concern 
tin-  event  before  ns.  When  the  nobleman  took  his  departure, 
the  damsel  reappeared.  The  "1,1  man  t:.«,k  her  ii.  his  embrace, 
and  while  the  tears  glistened  upon  his  snowy  beard,  lie  thus 
addressed  her  :  — 

"Hut    tor   thee  —  tor  thee,  chiefly — daughter   of  the   beloved 
and  sainted  child  in  heaven,  I  had  spared  myself  this  trial.    This 
wivtched    man    shonld    live    wert    thou    not    present,   making  it 
needful    that     I    sh<uild    still    prolong   to    the    last    possible    mo 
ment,  the  remnant  of  my  days.      Were    1    to  pi-rish.  where  wert 
thou?     Wliat  would  be  tin-  safety  "f  the  s\\ret  one  and  the 
olatel     The  insect   would   desrend   upon   the   bud,  and  it  woidd 
lose   scent   and    freshne«.      Tin-    worm    would    fasten    upon    the 
flower,  and  a  poison   prtMta  than  death  would  prey  upon  its  . 
No!  my  poor  Lueilla,  I  must  live  for  thee.  though  I  live  not  for 

myself.      1  must  shed  the  Id 1  of  mine  enemy,  and  spare  minr 

own.  that  thou  mayest  not  be  desolate." 


374  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

WHILE  the  tears  of  the  two  were  yet  mingling,  the  scene  un 
derwent  a  change  corresponding  with  my  anxiety  for  the  df> 
ment.  A  vast  area  opened  hefore  me,  surrounded  by  the  seats 
and  scaffolding  as  if  for  a  tournay,  and  the  space  was  filling  fast 
with  spectators.  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  splendor  of 
the  scene.  Lords  and  ladies,  in  their  most  gorgeous  attire,  oc 
cupied  the  high  places ;  princes  were  conspicuous ;  the  people 
were  assembled  in  thousands.  At  the  sound  of  trumpets  the 
king  made  his  appearance.  A  grand  burst  of  music  announced 
that  he  was  on  his  throne.  Among  the  knights  and  nobles  by 
whom  he  was  attended,  I  readily  distinguished  "  the  favorite." 
He  was  in  armor,  but  it  was  of  an  exceedingly  simple  pattern, 
and  seemed  designed  for  service  rather  than  display.  He  looked 
grave  and  apprehensive,  and  his  eyes  wore  frequently  turned 
upon  the  barriers,  as  if  in  anxious  waiting  for  the  champions. 

The  accused  was  the  first  to  appear.  He  was  soon  followed, 
however,  by  the  accuser,  and  both  made  their  way  through  the 
crown  to  the  foot  of  the  throne.  As  the  old  man  approached, 
the  favorite  drew  nigh,  and  addressed  him  in  subdued,  but  earn 
est  accents. 

"  It  is  not  yet  too  late  !  Call  upon  me  as  thy  champion.  The 
king  dare  not  refuse  thee,  and  as  I  live,  I  will  avenge  mine  own 
and  thy  wrongs  together." 

"  It  can  not  be,  my  lord,"  was  the  reply,  with  a  sad  shake  of 
the  head.  "  Besides,"  he  continued.  "  I  have  no  wrongs  to 
avenge.  I  seek  for  safety  only.  It  is  only  as  my  life  is  pledgee1 
equally  to  the  living  and  the  dead,  that  I  care  to  struggle  for  it, 
and  to  save." 

The  face  of  the  favorite  was  clouded  with  chagrin.  He  led 
the  way  in  silence  to  the  foot  of  the  throne,  followed  by  the 
venerable  man.  There,  the  latter  made  obeisance,  and  encoun 
tered  the  hostile  and  fierce  glance  of  his  enemy,  whom  he  re 
garded  only  with  looks  of  sorrow  and  commiseration.  A  breath 
less  silence  pervaded  the  vast  assembly  as  they  beheld  the 
white  locks,  the  simple  majesty  of  his  face  and  air,  and  the  cos 
tume  singular  for  such  an  occasion  —  which  he  wore.  This  did 


THE    roMBATANi-.  375 

nut  in  any  degree  differ  from  tliat  in  wliicli  he  had  always  ap- 
pea-red  habited  before.  It  consisted  of  a  loose,  flowing  robe  of 
the  pure-t  white,  nto.t  likr.  l.ut  m..r.  than  tin-  prie<tly 

CMSork.  His  opponent,  in  complete  steel,  shining  like  the  sun 
with  helmetrd  head  and  gauntleted  hand,  afTor<led  to  the  spec 
tators  a  most  astonishing  difference  between  the  combatants. 
The  wonder  increased  with  their  speculations.  The  surprise 
extended  itself  to  the  king,  uh«»  proffered,  as  Saul  had  done  to 
I,  the  proper  armor  of  a  warrior  to  the  defenceless  man. 
Hut  this  he  steadily  refused.  The  king,  himself,  condescended 
to  remonstrate. 

"This  is  sheer  madne>s,  old  man.  Wonldst  than  run  upon 
thy  death  with  uncovered  head  ami  bosom  .'" 

"Oh!  sire,  I  tear  not  death  and  feel  that  I  am  not  now  tc 
die.  Vet  \\.-uld  I  still  implore  that  I  may  be  spared  this  trial. 
( )nc(;  more  I  lay  myself  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  to  supplicate 
its  mercy." 

"For  thyself!"  cried  his  enemy,  with  a  scornful  taunt. 
1  '••!•  myself  and  for  thee  !"  was  the  firm  reply,  "that  I  may 
-j-an-d  the  pang  of  sending  thee  before  the  Eternal  Judge, 
with  all  thv  unatoned  crimes  upon  thy  head." 

The  voice  and  words  of  the  venerable  speaker,  deep  an 
emn,  thrilled,  with  a  sensible   effect,  throughout   the    assembly. 
Whence   should   he   derive    this   confidence  ?     From  heaven  or 
from  hell.      The  conclusion  to  which  they  came,  more  than  ever 
confirmed   their  belief  in    his   reputed   sorceries  ;   and   his  words 
inspired  a  deep  and  .silent  terror  aiii'.n-  the  crowd.     Hut  tb- 
cused,  strong  in  his  skill,  courage,  and  panoply  of  steel,  if  not  in 
the  justice  of  hi.s  cause,  mocked  scornfully,  and  defied  the  doom 
which    was   threatened.     Some   of  his  friends,  however,  shared 
strongly  in  the  apprehensions  of  the  vulgar. 

"He  hath  no  visible  armor."  was  their  cry;  "  with  what 
would  he  defend  himself.'  How  know  we  that  he  hath  not 
magic  arts,  and  devices  of  hell,  with  which  he  secretly  arm* 
him-elf  I" 

"Thou  hast  weapons  —  visible  weapons,  as  I  hear" — re 
marked  the  king. 

"They  are  at  hand,  sire  —  they  are  heir." 

"  Thou  hast  dealt  in  no  forbidden  practice  /" 


376  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"  None,  sire,  as  I  stand  uncovered  in  the  sight  of  heaven. 
The  reverend  father  in  God,  to  whom  thou  didst  give  in  charge 
this  inquiry,  is  here,  and  will  answer  to  your  majestv.  He  hath 
heard  and  seen  the  secret  of  my  strength  —  that  strength  which 
I  know  and  declare  is  powerful  to  destroy  my  foe.  He  knows 
it  to  be  a  secret  of  mortal  wisdom  only,  as  patiently  wrought  out 
by  human  art  and  labor,  as  were  the  sword  and  axe  of  him  who 
now  seeks  my  destruction.  I  have  warned  him  already  of  the 
fearful  power  which  they  impart.  I  would  still  have  him  live, 
unharmed  by  me." 

"  Peace,  insolent !"  cried  the  accused.  "  I  am  here,  your 
majesty,  to  fight,  not  to  prate! — to  chastise,  not  to  hearken  to 
the  speeches  of  this  pagan  sorcerer.  Let  his  power  be  what  he 
esteems  it :  I  trust  to  my  good  sword  and  to  the  favor  of  the 
Mother  of  God ;  and  I  doubt  not  of  this  good  steel,  which  hath 
been  crowned  with  a  threefold  conquest,  on  the  plains  of  the 
Saracen.  I  entreat  that  your  majesty  will  give  command  for 
the  combat." 

CHAPTER    IX. 

THE  eye  of  the  venerable  accuser,  regarded  the  face  of  the 
.speaker  with  a  sad  and  touching  solemnity  ;  but  at  this  moment, 
the  little  girl  who  had  before  accompanied  him,  was  conducted 
into  the  foreground  by  the  archbishop.  She  bore  in  her  hand  a 
sarhacane  —  seemingly  of  brass,  long  and  narrow  like  a  wand,  and 
crowned,  at  the  extremity,  by  a  small  globe  or  bulb  of  the  same 
material.  The  length  of  this  instrument  was  fully  six  feet  or 
more.  The  old  man  took  it  into  his  hands,  and  having  unscrewed 
a  part  of  the  bull*  —  which  seemed  a  mere  sheathing  of  brass,  he 
discovered  beneath  it  another  globe,  similar,  in  shape  and  si/.e, 
to  that  which  had  been  removed  ;  but  the  inner  hnlli  w;is  man 
ufactured  of  glass,  of  a  whiteness  equally  crystalline  and  beauti 
ful.  He  then  took  from  beneath  his  mbes  a  little  box  of  ebony, 
which  he  unlocked,  and  from  which  lie  produced  a  headpiece, 
the  face  of  which,  instead  of  being  hard  steel  or  iron,  was  of  gla>s 
also,  very  thin,  and  <jnite  transparent,  through  which  every 
muscle  and  motion  of  the  features  might  he  seen  with  the  great 
est  distinctness.  To  the  thoughtless  vulgar,  such  a  shield 
seemed  only  a  mockeuy  of  that  more  solid  furniture  of  metal 


THE    rOMHAT. 

which,  in   tlu^  -horoughlv  encased  tin'  wamor  for  battle 

inference,  accordingly,  was  very  general,  tlmt  if  by  any 
'i'ility,  the  ttCpMf  raeeeefod  in  tin-  combat,  ho  would  he  in 
debted  solely  to  supernatural  agency  for  his  good  fortune.  His 
wan.l  of  brass,  with  its  crystal  bulb —  hi*  glassy  vi/or  and  hel 
met —  were  only  regarded  as  designed  to  divert  the  scrutiny 
from  the  more  secret  agency  which  he  employed. 

"I  am  ready,"  said  the  accuser. 

"Hast  thou  prayed  !"  demanded  his  enemy,  in  a  mocking 
fashion.  "  If  thou  hast  not,  get  thee  to  thy  knee-  quickly,  and 
renounce  the  devil  whom  thou  servest.  Verily,  hut  little  time 

is  left    tin 

"I  have  prayed,  and  confessed  to  the  II. dy  Father.  Do 
thou  likewise,  and  make  thyself  hnnilde  and  contrite.  Kepent 
thee  —  for,  of  a  truth,  my  lord,  if  the  king  forbid  not  this  com 
bat,  thou  art  doomed  this  day  to  £0  to  judgment." 

The  heart  of  the  accused  was  hardened  within  him.  He  re 
plied  with  a  hiss  of  defiance  and  contempt  to  this  last  appeal  ; 
nt  the  same  moment  he  declared  himself  in  readiness  also.  Th«-y 
wen-  then  withdrawn  from  the  presence  fur  a  brief  space,  and 
were  severally  approached  by  their  friends  and  attendants  The 
archbishop,  and  the  kind's  favorite  went  aside  with  the  accuser, 
and  when  the  latter  returned  to  the  arena,  iu  order  to  the  combat, 
the  archni-hop  led  away  with  him  the  little  jjirl,  upon  whom,  at 
parting,  the  old  man  bestowed  many  I  ircompanied  by  ma 

ny  tears.  The  spectators  were  all  very  much  moved  by  this  ten- 
derne«s.  and  now  hejran  t«>  regard  him  a-  -acri- 

fic,.  —  doomed  to  }„>  separated  for  ever,  and  U  a  violent  death, 
from  the  object  of  his  affections.  And  when  the  opponents 
Stood,  at  length,  confronting  each  other  —  with  none  to  go  be 
: — awaiting  only  the  word  for  the  combat  n  r,»itr,in'T  ;  — 
when  thov  regarded  the  strong  soldier-like  frame,  and  the  war 
like  hearing  of  the  accused  —  heheld  the  ft*M  with  \\hich  he 
Strode  the  lists,  and  displayed  l.:  B  ;  --  and  contracted  this 

image  of  dire  ne  e--ity  and  war.  with  the  feeble,  though  erect 
form  of  his  venerable  accuser.  — habited  in  vestmenH  like  a 
priest  or  woman  —  with  the  simple  unmeaning  wand  within  his 
grasp,  and  the  frail  mask  of  brittle  crystal  upon  his  face  —  a 
loud  murmur  of  regret  and  commiseration  prevailed  among  the 


878  SOUTHWARD    HO ! 

multitude.     But  this  murmur  was  soon  quieted  by  the  cry  of  the 
master  of  the  tournay  — 

"  Laisscz  allcr !" 

Then  followed  a  painful  silence. 

"  Now,  sorcerer,"  cried  the  knight,  raising  his  glittering  sword 
and  advancing  deliberately  and  with  the  confident  manner  of 
the  executioner.  The  aged  accuser  simply  presented  the  bul 
bous  extremity  of  his  wand,  and  before  the  accused  could  smite, 
tin-  frail  glass  was  shivered  against  the  bars  of  his  enemy's 
mouth-piece.  At  this  moment  the  knight  was  seen  slightly  to 
recoil ;  but  it  was  for  a  moment  only,  in  the  next  instant  he  dart 
ed  forward,  and  with  a  fierce  cry,  seemed  about  to  strike.  The 
old  man,  in  the  meantime,  had  suffered  his  wand  to  fall  upon  the 
ground.  He  made  no  further  effort  —  offered  no  show  of  fear 
or  flight,  but  with  arms  folded,  seemed  in  resignation  to  await  the 
death-stroke  of  his  enemy.  But  while  the  weapon  of  the  man 
of  war  was  in  air,  and  seemingly  about  to  descend,  he  was  seen 
to  pause,  while  his  form  suddenly  became  rigid.  A  quirk  and 
awful  shudder  seemed  t<>  ]»a^>  through  his  \\hole,  frame.  Thus, 
for  a  second,  he  stood  paralyzed,  and  then  a  thin,  mist-like  vapor, 
which, might  be  called  smoke,  was  seen  to  creep  out  from  various 
parts  of  his  frame,  followed  by  a  thin  but  oily  liquor,  that  now 
appeared  oo/ing  through  all  the  crevices  of  his  armor.  His  arm 
dropped  nervelessly  by  his  side  ;  the  sword  fell  from  the  inca 
pable  grasp  of  his  gauntleted  hands,  and  in  an  inconceivable 
fraction  of  time,  he  himself,  with  all  his  hulk,  sunk  down  upon 
the  earth  —  falling,  not  at  length,  prostrate,  either  backward  or 
forward,  but  in  a  heap,  even  upon  the  spot  which  he  had  oc 
cupied  when  standing;  and  as  if  every  bone  had  suddenly  been 
withdrawn  which  had  sustained  them,  the  several  part*  of  his 
armor  became  detached,  and  rolled  away  —  his  helmet,  his  gorget, 
his  cuiras,  his  greaves,  his  gauntlets — disclosing  beneath  a  dark, 
discolored  mass  —  a  mere  jellied  substance,  in  which  bones  and 
muscles  were  already  decomposed  and  resolved  into  .something 
less  than  flesh.  Above  this  heap  might  be  seen  a  Mill  bright 
and  shining  eye,  which,  for  a  single  second,  seemed  to  retain 
consciousness  and  life,  as  if  the  soul  of  the  immortal  being  ba<J 
lingered  in  this  beautiful  and  perfect  orb,  reluctant  to  depait. 
But  in  a  moment  it,  too,  had  disappeared  —  all  the  brightness 


THE   CRY    OF   THK    MULTITUDE.  379 

swallowed  up  an  1  stifled  in  the  little  cloud  ••!'  vapor  which  now 
trembled,  heaving  up  from  the  mass  which  l>nt  a  moment  before 
had  been  a  breathing,  a  burning,  an  exulting  spirit.  A  cold 
horror  ovei-sj.read  the  tiehl,  followed  l>y  a  husky  and  convulsive 
crv.  a-  from  a  drowning  multitude.  The  people  ga/ed  upon  each 
other,  and  upon  the  awful,  heap  in  unspeakable  terror.  It  \s,t- 
annihilation  which  had  taken  place  before  them.  Dead  was  the 
silence  that  prevailed  for  several  minutes;  a  vacant  consternation 
freezing  up  the  very  souls  of  the  spectator*.  But  the  reaction 
ss-A.,  tremendous. 

"  Seixe  upon  the  BOrOSrorl  Tear  him  in  pieces!''  was  the  cry 
frcm  a  thousand  voices.  This  was  followed  hy  a  wild  rush,  like 
that  of  an  incoming  sea  struggling  to  o\-erwhelm  the  headlands. 
The  barriers  were  broken  down,  the  cries  swelle  1  into  a  \ery 
tempest,  and  the  mammoth  multitude  rolled  onward,  with  souls 
on  tire,  eyes  glaring  \\ith  tiger  fury,  and  hands  outstretched, 
clutching  spasmodic-alls  at  their  victim.  Their  course  had  but 
one  centre,  where  the  old  man  calmly  stood.  There  he  kept 
his  immovable  station,  calm,  firm,  subdued,  but  stately.  Uo\r 
will  he  avert  his  fate  —  how  stay  this  ocean  of  souls,  resolute  t«> 
overwhelm  him  .'  I  trembled  —  1  gasped  with  doubt  and  appre- 
heiision.  Hut  1  was  spared  the  further  contemplation  of  horrors 
which  I  could  no  longer  bear  to  witne**.  \,\  the  verv  intensity 
of  the  interest  which  my  imagination  had  conceived  in  the  sub 
ject.  There  is  a  point  beyond  which  the  mortal  nature  can  not 
endure.  I  had  reached  that  point,  and  was  relieved,  lauaken- 
ed,  ami  started  into  living  consciousness,  my  face  covered  with 
clammy  dews,  my  hair  upright  and  \\et.  my  whole  iVame  agita 
ted  with  the  terror.*  which  were  due  wholly  to  the  imagination. 

It  would  be  easy,  prrhap*.  to  ace. mm  for  such  a  dream.  ;t*- 
hiiming,  as  we  did  at  the  outset,  that  the  mental  tacultie.*  ne\ei 
know  abeyance  that  the  thought  never  sleeps.  Any  specula 
tion,  in  regard  to  the  transition  periods  in  Kn^lish  history,  would 
give  the  requisite  material.  lYom  a  sur\ev  of  the  powei*  »f 
physical  manhood  to  t-hose  rival  and  superior  powers  which  fol 
low  from  the  birth  of  art  and  science,  the  step  is  natural  eii"U-h  ; 
and  the  imagination  might  well  drlight  itself  I»N  putting  them  in 
contrast  and  opposition.  Hut  \\  e  have  n<i  spar.-  left  tor  further 
discussion 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

HOW    THK    BILIOUS    ORATOR    ESSAYED 

"  A  GOOD  deal  has  been  said  in  respect  to  the  monotony  01 
the  prospect  while  passing  through  the  North-Carolina  country. 
In  respect  to  such  influences  as  are  derived  from  the  moral 
world,  and  by  which  places  are  lighted  up  by  a  brilliancy  not 
their  own,  the  same  thing  may  be  said  of  most  of  the  ordinary 
stage  and  railway  routes  everywhere  in  our  country.  Roads 
are  usually  drawn  through  the  most  accessible  regions.  The 
lands  commonly  surrendered  for  this  purpose  are  generally  the 
most  inferior,  and  the  man  of  taste  rarely  establishes  a  fine  man 
sion  upon  the  common  highway.  In  the  South,  this  is  particu 
larly  the  case.  The  finer  dwellings  of  the  planter  are  to  be 
approached  through  long  and  sinuous  avenues,  that  open  only  a 
green  arch  upon  the  roadside,  and  show  you  nothing  to  convey 
any  tolerable  idea  of  the  beauty,  taste  and  comfort  which  are 
buried  in  noble  woods  away  from  vulgar  curiosity.  The  land 
scape,  in  the  eye  of  the  hurrying  traveller,  needs  to  possess  but 
a  single  element — variety.  Let  it  be  broken  into  great  inequal 
ities —  steep  rocks,  and  deep  dells  and  valleys,  overhanging 
precipices,  and  thundering  waterfalls  —  and  the  voyager,  who  is 
only  the  pendant  to  a  locomotive  for  the  nonce,  is  quite  satisfied. 
Beauty  of  detail  is,  of  course,  quite  imperceptible  to  his  vision. 
In  the  old  countries  of  Kurope,  the  site  is  illustrated  by  tower 
and  temple,  picturesque  ruin  and  votive  tablet.  The  handbook 
which  you  carry  distinguishes  the  spot  with  some  strange  or 
startling  history.  In  our  world  of  woods,  we  lack  these  ad 
juncts.  If  we  had  the  handbook,  we  should  doubtlessly  dis 
cover  much  to  interest  us  in  the  very  scenes  by  which  we  hurry 
with  contempt.  Dull  and  uninteresting  as  the  railroad  route 
appears  through  North  and  South  Carolina,  were  you  familiar 
with  the  facts  in  each  locality  —  could  you  couple  each  with  it* 


LOCAL   CHRONICLES.  381 

local    history  or  tradition  —  the  fancy  would   instantly  quicken, 
and   the  mind  would  not  only  take  a  lively  interest  in  the 
through  which  you  pass,  but  would,  by  a  naturally-assimilative 
process,  begin  to  explore  for  its  underlying  beaut  ie 

"  What  a  j»ity  that  handbooks  for  the  South  are  not  provided 
t>\  sMine  patriotic  author  !" 

"They  \\ill  be  furnished,  no  doubt,  when  the  tide  of  travel 
set*  in  this  direction,  and  you  will  then  be  surprised  ;it  the  dis 
coveries  which  shall  be  made.  He  who  goes  over  these  com 
mon  routes  lias  no  idea  of  the  wondrous  scenic  beauties  which 
lie  in  wait  to  delight  him,  hidden  from  sight  only  by  the  road 
side  umbrage.  With  a  considerable  knowledge  of  the  history 
of  the  country  in  all  these  states,  1  am  able  to  identify  scenes 
of  interest  as  I  pass;  and  1  find,  at  every  step,  in  mv  course 
along  these  regions  which  seem  so  barren  to  the  stranger,  fruit 
ful  interest*  and  moving  influences,  which  exercise  equally  the 
and  the  imagination —  the  imagination  through  the 
memory.  There  is  si-un-ely  a  mile  in  the  passage  over  the 
common  roads,  in  South  Carolina,  which  I  do  not  thus  find  sug- 
gestive  of  events  and  persons,  legends  and  anecdotes,  which 
elevate  the  aspect  of  the  baldest  trn< -is.  each  with  a  befitting 
moral.  To  him  who  can  recall  these  events  ami  traditions,  the 
BCCne  becomes  invested  with  a  soft  and  rosy  light —  the  sterile 
sands  put  on  features  which  sublime  them  to  the  thought,  and 
the  gloomy  wastes  of  pine  and  swamp  forest  r..mmend  them 
selves  to  sympathies  which  lie  much  deeper  than  any  which 
we  can  reach  through  the  medium  of  the  external  senses.  No 
doubt  this  is  the  .same  in  all  the  wild  itafttl  "t  the  South,  to 
him  who  is  of  'the  mtinnr  born.'  Then-  will  lie  a  thousand 
local  matters,  of  coloiii/.ation,  early  adventure.  pecuT 
and  endurances  —  the  long  records  of  history  and  tradition.  fV-un 
the  first  coining  of  the  colonists  —  which,  if  known  t<-  the  way 
farer,  would  make  him  forgetful  of  the  monotonous  features  of 
his  progress." 

14  It  is  a  great  pity  that  for  these  we  have  no  guide-books  — 
no  monuments  along  the  way.side  —  no  'Old  Mortality'  (..  show 
US  where  ihe  stone  lies  half  buried,  and,  with  his  (  h>,  I  to 
deepen  all  its  features  to  our  eyes.  Some  of  these  days.  n,i 
doubt,  we  shall  ha\e  i.ire  chroniclers  sj.- M-^-ing  up,  who  shall 


382  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

reveal  to  our  successors  these  things  —  these  objects,  as  well  of 
mind  as  of  sight  —  which  we  hourly  hurry  by  unseeing." 

"  Of  this  I  have  no  sort  of  question.  The  development  is  in 
progress.  The  mines  of  the  South  have  been  struck.  The 
vein  is  revealed.  The  quarry  is  discovered,  and  in  due  season 
it  will  be  worked.  The  very  impatience  with  which  wo  com 
plain  that  the  thing  is  not  done,  is  in  some  degree  a  guaranty 
for  the  performance.  We  must  wait  upon  Providence.  The 
great  error  of  our  people,  as  a  whole,  is  that  they  live  too  fast. 
and  endeavor  at  too  much.  If  suffered  to  go  ahead,  according 
*x>  the  motive  impulse  in  their  veins,  our  posterity  would  have 
neither  necessity  nor  field  for  achievement.  I  am  for  leaving 
something  to  be  done  by  our  children.  To  him  who  remembers 
the  South — North  Carolina,  for  example  —  but  twenty,  nay, 
ten  years  ago,  her  social  and  mental  progress  is  absolutely 
wonderful." 

"  Hear  that,  young  Turpentine,  and  be  consoled  at  all  my 
flings  at  the  old  North  state." 

"  Ah,  he  knows  it  better  than  either  you  or  me." 

"  But,  without  looking  to  the  social  progress  of  North  Caro 
lina,  and  regarding  her  as  a  region  only  for  the  cxplorntinn  of 
the  picturesque  and  adventure-seeking  traveller — the  artist,  the 
man  of  taste,  the  lover  of  fine  manly  sports,  —  the  good  old 
North  state  is  one  of  the  most  attractive  in  all  the  confederacy. 
Her  vast  ranges  of  mountain  render  her  especially  attractive  to 
all  these  classes."' 

"  Yet,  how  little  promise  of  this  is  there  along  the  Atlantic 
shore !" 

"  Even  here,  to  the  painter  of  detail,  to  the  contemplative  and 
musing  taste  and  nature,  there  are  thousands  of  scenes  of  great 
interest  and  beauty.  To  find  these,,  however,  you  need  the  eye 
that  sees;  and  the  man  whose  eyes  have  been  properly  couched 
by  art  may  spend  months  and  vear>  along  the  Atlantic  coast, 
and  discover  new  provinces  of  beauty  with  the  ramble  of  each 
succeeding  day.  Nature,  in  her  arrangement  of  the  scenery  of 
the  South,  differing  from  the  rule  of  the  arti-t,  has  thrown  her 
most  imposing  forms  and  a-prct-.  into  the  background.  Her 
mountains  and  majestic  altar-places  arc  nowhere  visible  along 
the  sea;  and  the  superficial  traveller  is  prepared  to  doubt  the 


F\M;V   I:K<,I>  383 

existence  of  ;u,v  such  throughout  our  land.  Their  absence  on 
the  Atlantic  would  not.  perhaps,  he  M  greatly  felt,  it'  IIUMI  wore 
not  always  mo>t  easily  taken  by  tin-  bald  outline,  tin-  mere  sur 
face,  the  simply  salient  and  externally  iniji  -::i_'.  There  is 
much  in  the  -cenerv  along  our  coa>t  which,  closely  examined, 
woulil,  hy  its  exquisite  delicacy  and  nice  variety  of  detail,  quite 

•  Mich    attract   the   mere    explorer  a>   the   artist.      One  of  the 
peculiarities   of  tliis  region,  as    distinguished    fr<>m    the    northern 

the  presence  of  the  numerous  beautiful  islets,  that 
IftQg  to  guard  our  shores  and  cities  from  the  wave.  Roving  in 
l.oat  or  steamer  along  these,  islets,  or  among  them,  they  appeal 
to  A  moral  instinct,  the  exercise  ..f  which  puts  a  thousand  genial 
fancies  into  activity.  They  rise  up  suddenly  around  you,  like 
gems  from  out  the  >ea  ;  fairy  abodes  at  lea>t  ;  sometime^  irreen 
in  shruh,  and  vine,  and  tree,  to  the  very  lips  of  ocean;  and 
again,  spread  out,  a  sandv  plain,  glittering  with  myriads  of  dia 
mond  sparks,  garlanded  witli  myriads  of  fantastic  shells,  and 

.ing,  tor  all  the  world,  —  particularly  when  seen  hy  the 
moonlight  —  to  have  heen  devised  and  ch-.-eii  M  favorite  places 
for  the  sports  of  Oberon  and  Titania,  of  Puck  and  Little  John, 
the  capricious  Loline  and  the  tricksy  Anatilln.  Southward  as 
you  go,  they  spread  away,  diamonds  or  emeralds,  till  they  con- 
duct  you  to  the  great  waters  of  the  Mississippi.  They  grow  in 
in  heauty  as  you  advance  northwardly.  But  they 
still  constitute  a  reinaikahle  feature  of  our  whole  COMtj  and  to 
him  who  spreads  sail  among  them  at  moonlight,  especially  in 
the  more  southwardly  points,  they  r.-mpj-l  the  thought  nf  all  the 
heings  recognise. 1  hv  the  old  svstein  of  pncumatnl"i:y.  The 

•rs  of  Cape  Hatteras  might  well  make  it  to  he  supj..- 
region  of  mischief,  upheaved  from  the  sea,  hy  races  ..f  uii-eiitlcr 
l.eings  than  such  as  harh..r  in  th.-se  little  sand-dune-,  uhich  lie 
so  pmilingly  in  the  moonlight,  with  the  sea  moving  l.«-t \\een  them 
in  such  placid  currents.  At  Hatferas,  we  may  supposes, the  ma 
licious  elves,  the  grim  Hrounies,  tlie  Mffftff  K  idiahit  — 

•  'emon  trihes  that  lie  waiting,  in  malignant  watch  t'»r  the  uncon 
scious  bark  —  slyly   slipping   heneath    the  wave,  sei/ing    without 

M   upon   the    prow   of   the  vessel,  and    drawing    her    into   the 
insidious    current^,  and    upon    the  sands  of  the  treachei  on- 
The  fancy  that  peoples  the  inn-uvnt  islet-,  \\hir1!   \\reck  no  ves- 


384  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

sel>  with  the  '  good  people,'  may  with  equ.il  propriety  refer 
the  dangerous  capes  and  headlands  to  such  hostile  tribes  of 
demons  as  haunt  the  wilds  of  Scotland,  the  Harz  mountains  and 
Black  forests  of  the  German,  and  the  stormy  shores  of  the 
Scandinavian." 

"Not  an  unreasonable  notion.  But  was  not  Hatterask  the 
old  Indian  name  of  the  cape  and  the  sea  about  it,  as  given  by 
the  ancient  chroniclers?" 

"  Yes  :  they  varied,  however ;  sounds  imperfectly  caught  from 
the  Indian  tongue  were  imperfectly  rendered  in  the  various 
tongues  of  Dutchman,  Spaniard,  Frenchman,  and  Englishman. 
We  must  content  ourselves  with  making  them  euphonious,  and 
leave  their  absolute  propriety  in  doubt." 

"  And  a  pretty  sort  of  euphony  we  should  have  of  it,  if  we 
leave  the  matter  to  American  discretion." 

"  This  need  occasion  no  concern.  The  poets  settle  this  for 
succeeding  time,  when  our  generations  have  no  longer  the 
power  to  pervert  the  ears  of  the  future.  The  necessity  of 
verse  compels  the  gradual  growth  of  harmony  in  every  lan 
guage.  The  oral  authority  lasts  no  longer  than  it  can  compel 
the  echo.  The  poet,  always  resisted  while  he  lives,  leaves  a 
voice  behind  him  that  survives  all  others.  Let  him  make  his 
record,  and  be  satisfied  to  leave  it  to  the  decision  of  posterity. 
There  is  no  speech  of  the  future  that  rises  in  conflict  with  his 
own." 

"  Are  the  historical  and  traditional  materiel  of  North  Carolina 
of  attractive  character  ?" 

"  None  more  so.  The  very  regions  of  country  which  are  so 
barren  in  the  eyes  of  the  stranger,  pursuing  the  railway  routes 
along  the  Atlantic  coast,  would  alone  afford  materials  for  a 
thousand  works  of  fiction.  I  have  identified,  along  this  very 
route,  the  progress  of  more  than  one  curious  history.  Take 
an  example :  — 

"  Our  first  serious  war  with  the  redmen  of  the  South,  broke 
out  in  1712.  The  savages  of  the  old  North  State  took  up  Hie 
tomahawk  and  scalping  knife  in  that  year,  with  terrible  effect. 
Numerous  tribes  were  h-ajrin-d  ti^-tln-r  tor  (lie  extermination  of 
the  whites  of  tin-  colony  of  New  Berne.  This  colony  was  of 
Swiss,  from  the  Canton  of  Berne  in  Switzerland,  and  Germans 


LE.Uil'i:    Df    THE    I'JiDMKN. 

.>f  the  Palafii  ty  came  out  to  America  under  tlie  patron- 

1  ,  I iv  tlie  liaron  De  (.Jraffcn- 

n  i  '.t,  who  was  create. 1    a    laii'Iiirra\  e.      lie,  with    J.-.uis   Mitchell. 

a  leading  man  among  the  Swiss,  received  a  -rant  of  ten  thousand 

•  «t'  lami  on   either   of  the    river>  Neuse   and  (  .        .,  ,,r 

their    tributary  branches,  at    the    rate  nf  ten    pound*   sterling  for 

y    tliOflMlkl    acres,    and    a    quit  rent    nf   live    shilling?..       The 

number   of  Germans   is   unknown;    but    tlie    S\\iss   weie    fifteen 

hundred.      'I'liey  reaclieii  tin-  continence  nf  the  N< -UM-  and  Trent 

in  I''  II  10,  and  laid  off  the  limits  of  the   colony  in  that 

neighborhood. 

e  conditions  upon  which  the-e  p(-,,ple  came  to  America, 
specious  and  encouraging.  Kach  of  them  received,  in  V. 
(and,  an  outfit  in  clothes  and  niMiicy,  of  from  live  to  ten  pounds 
Sterling;  ami  two  hundred  ami  fifty  acres  wen-  allotted  to  each 
family,  which  was  to  bo  ii\e  yi-ars  exempt  from  rent  or  taxation. 
At  the  end  of  that  time,  they  were  to  pay  at  the  rate  of  half  per 
cent,  Carolina  currency. —  They  \\nv  credited  one  year  with 
provisions,  and  seven  year.-,  with  the  materiel  for  a  certain  farm 
ing  establishment.  This  included  cows  and  calx-  and 
.  lambs,  &c.  Tools  and  implem-  !  ;i,d  and 
building.  \\e:e  furnished  without  any  charge  bv  the  pmprii  ' 

i  '»  a  j r  pi-.. pie,  driven  from  their  native  abodes,  the  p 

Jug    enough  ;    and    the    treatment  which    they 

•  d\<-r\   liberal.      I ndeed,  the  colony  very  soon 

to  put  "ii  the  mo-t  pn-sperous  appearance  —  was  llourishing 

in  fact,  growing  daily  in  numbers  and  atlluence.      Hut  the  In.iian», 

as  the    pii  .  began  to   h.i.k    <>n    the  whites  with    j«-al'tu>«v. 

,)e;il«.usy,    it    probably    \va««    not.      In    brief  tin-  '-ted 

'!!•••>  which   t!  ;    f»r   the  fust    time,  and  which  I 

indilVerently   gnanled. 

"  In  the  fall  "t'    L711,  Certain    td  1    t-  combine    their 

l'««r  tht-  purpose  of  massacre  and   plunder.      The  Tuscaro- 
ras  uu  lert"<>k  t«.  cut  the  thmats  of  th-  .pmi  the  1> 

nnd  between  that  river  and  Pamlic«»,  otherw'iM-  Tar  river.  The 
Cotheckneys  and  Corees  arranged  t<>  do  the  sain.'  henovi.lent 
Ollice  for  the  settl-  ;  Mat- 

-kettos  and  Matchapangos  had   the  duty  assigned  them  of 
scalping  the  whites  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hath. 

17 


38G  SOUTHWARD    HO! 

"  The  work  was  done  with  little  reservation  at  the  designated 
period.  But  a  few  days  before  the  massacre,  the  Indians  suc 
ceeded  in  taking  captive  the  Baron  De  Graffenreidt  and  J)hn 
Lawson,  the  surveyor-funeral  of  the  province,  whose  book  of 
travels,  a  highly-interesting  narrative,  constitutes  one  of  the  best 
of  our  Indian  authorities  of  the  South,  and  should  be  in  every 
good  American  library. 

"These  distinguished  persons,  totally  unsuspicious  of  danger, 
were  engaged  in  an  exploring  expedition  up  the  Neuse.  Their 
vessel  was  a  mere  Jt/^-oi/f,  a  cypress  canoe  of  native  manufacture  : 
and  they  were  accompanied  only  by  a  negro,  who  paddled  the 
canoe,  right  and  left.  They  landed  at  evening  with  the  view 
of  encamping,  when  they  were  suddenly  surrounded  by  more  than 
sixty  Indians.  They  were  made  prisoners  and  marched  off  to 
a  village  some  distance  up  the  river — a  march  that  occupied  the 
whole  night.  Here  the  tribe  and  their  neighbors  met  in  solemn 
consultation  on  the  fate  of  their  prisoners.  The  baron  was  an 
intruder,  but  Lawson  was  an  inrtn1er.  As  it  was  at't«>r  his  sur 
veys  that  they  found  their  lands  appropriated,  they  assumed  him 
to  be  the  source  of  the  evil  of  which  they  complained.  Both  the 
captives  underwent  a  severe  preliminary  beating,  the  better  to 
•j re  pa  re  them  for  what  was  to  follow.  They  were  then  deliber 
ately  doomed  to  the  fire  torture,  carried  to  the  field  of  sacrifice, 
kept  there  in  durance  vile,  and  in  the  most  gloomy  apprehensions 
far  a  day  and  night,  when  the  number  of  the  savages  having 
greatly  increased  to  behold  the  spectacle,  the  preparations  were 
immediately  begun  for  carrying  the  terrible  judgment  into  effect. 
The  orgies  and  phrensied  brutalities  of  the  Indians  may  be 
imagined.  The  hour  for  execution  came.  The  parties  wero 
bound  to  the  stake  ;  but  at.  this  moment  the  baron  pleaded  his 
nubility,  appealing  to  the  chiefs  for  protection,  for  that  he  too 
was  a  chief. 

11  St:angc  to  say,  the  appeal  was  entertained.  Tliry  concluded 
to  spare  his  life:  but  no  entreaty  could  save  Lawson  and  the 
negro.  They  were  subjected  to  the  fiery  ordeal,  and  perished 
by  .1  terrible  and  lingering  death,  protracted  to  their  utmost  capa 
city  to  endure,  with  all  the  horrid  ingenuity  of  savage  art.  Then 
followed  the  general  massacre,  which  spread  consternation 


I:AT  OF  IHI:  I:I:I>MI:X.  387 

throughout   the   province.      More   than   one   hundred    and    sixty 

'tis  were  hutchered  in  a  night." 

"Certainly,  the  romancer  could  work  up  such  a  history  with 
good  eiVect.  What  a  terriide  scene,  in  these,  awful  forests,  with 
thou  -lift  hegrimed  and  painted  savages,  howling  terribly, 

•iancing  fiercely  about  them.      Did  the  afiair  end  liere  ?" 
"How  c..:ddit?      It  is  th  •  v  <tf  civilization  that  it  must 

conquer.  At  the  iirst  tidings  ot' the  affair,  the  assemhlv  of  South 
!ina,  then  in  session  at  Charleston,  called  out  her  militia, 
and  appropriated  eighty  thousand  dollars  to  the  relief  of  the  si>- 
ter  province.  Six  hundred  militiamen,  under  ('..I.  P>arnwell,  im 
mediately  took  the  field.  An  auxiliary  force  of  friendly  Indian-, 
I'.'UMsting  of  twu  hundred  and  eighteen  ('herd^  es.  -e\  eiity-nine 
i  Us.  f.>rty-«,ne  Catauhas,  twenty-eight  Yemas>ei-s  —  all  com 
manded  l.y  n-fiitr  otlicers  —  \\erejoined  tothe  force  under  liani- 
well  -  the  Indians  Iteing  chietlv  u.-ed  a<  scoui>  and  hunters. 

Wild,  tangled,  gloomy,  was  the  wilderness  which  they  had  to 
traverse  —  a  region  utterly  savage,  inhahited  l>v  hear  and  pan 
ther,  or  by  trihes  of  men  quite  as  ferocious  and  untameahle. 
The  governor  of  North  Carolina  called  out  the  militia  of  North 
Carolina,  hut  seemingly  in  vain.  His  proclamation  was  little 
heed* 

Barn  well  crossed  the  country,  in  spite  of  all  impedimeh' 

came  up  with  the  Indians,  who  were  in   great  upon  the 

here  they  had    erected  a  strong  fort  of  l.,gs,  at  a   point 

bome  thirtv  miles  helou    the  spot  where  the  railroad  crosses   the 

.     The  hattle  that  followed  resulted  in  the  utter  defeat  of  the 

Indians,  and  the  annihilation  of  some  of  their  nil  M.      More  than 

three  hundred  of  the  redmen  were-  slain  —  we  have  no  report  of 

the    wounded  —  and    one    hundred    were    made    piisoiieis.      The 

tie  had  taken  place  without  their  fortre  — .  ti.r   Indians  having 

boldly    heroine   th-  tttS,      The    fugitixcs   found    shelter    in 

the  fort,  which,  after  much  loss  and  great  sullenng,  they  hiuren- 

..d    sued    for   peace;    u  Inch    \\  a-»   granted    them    l.y  their 

conqueror.      Harnwell  was   censurecl    for   heing   too   iinlulgr: 

vamjui.she.l  ;  hut  \\hat  cmihl  he  exact  from  the  savages  I 
Thev  had  nothing  tarther  to  concede  than  suhmission  —  could 
make  no  farther  sacrifice  hut  in  their  lives.  :ress  thus 

captured  was  called  after  the  conqueror,  and  you  may  still  : 


888  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

out  its  ruins.  Would  these  have  no  interest  in  the  eyes  of  tl.e 
traveller  who  is  familiar  with  the  history  .' 

"  Now,  if  I  say  that  all  this  region  is  marked  in  like  interest 
ing  manner,  by  wild,  savage,  bloody,  strange,  and  wonderful 
events,  you  will  be  no  longer  doubtful  of  the  attraction  with 
which  an  ordinary  handbook,  such  as  in  Europe  distinguishes 
every  crumbling  fabric  or  fortress  with  a  human  interest,  would 
invest  this  seemingly  ban-en  country.  There  are  true  histories 
throughout  all  these  old  states  of  the  south,  not  inferior  to  those 
of  JAnvhatan  and  Pocahoiitas,  and  that  remarkable  old  Roman 
red  man  of  Virginia,  the  mighty  Opechancanough." 

"  It  is  curious,"  said  Selina  Burroughs,  "  that  our  own  people 
are  quite  as  ignorant  of  these  local  histories  as  anybody  else." 

The  remark  stirred  the  bile  in  the  bosom  of  our  Alabama  orator, 
who  was  never  more  ready  to  lift  the  tomahawk  than  when  oppor 
tunity  offered  to  indulge  in  a  fling  at  the  Yankees,  and  poui 
out  his  sarcasms  at  the  expense  of  those  of  the  South,  who  were 
adverse  to  decisive  or  hostile  measures. 

"  Nothing  curious  about  it,  Miss  Burroughs.  We  are  a  poor, 
mouthing,  meanspirited  people  after  all,  with  long  tongues  and  soft 
brains,  and  no  resolution.  Our  ignorance  in  respect  to  our  own 
history  and  own  resources,  and  our  own  rights,  is  sufficiently  con 
clusive,  against  our  peipetuallv  vaunted  patriotism.  Our  constant 
travel  at  the  "North  among  a  people  who  are  fur  ever  assailing 
us,  is  enough  to  shame  and  discredit  all  our  boasting." 

"But  there  is  a  great  change  going  on  in  this  respect,  sir." 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  1  can  acknowledge  tins,  though  the  acknowl 
edgment  does  not  a  whit  lessen  the  necessity  of  denouncing  the 
practice  which  is  still  too  much  continued.  We  must  continue 
to  denounce  until  the  reform  is  complete.  It  is  a  great  consola 
tion,  full  of  hope  and  promise,  that  it  is  at  last  begun." 

Here  the,  orator  dashed  oil'  into  an  essay,  somewhat  in  the 
vein  of  his  anniversary  oration,  which,  as  it  contains  sundry 
startling  things,  and  striking  sarcasms,  our  reporter  has  thought 
it  proper  to  preserve.  In  fact,  there  is  a  wholesome  word  for 
North  and  South,  in  the  verv  energetic  expression  of  this  man's 
feelings.  He  is  the  true  type  and  representative  of  a  large  por 
tion  of  the  southern  people,  speaking  the  bitterness  which  they 
have  been  taught  to  nourish,  their  jealous  resentments,  and  tho 


THE    HILIOI-    K-  A  VIST.  389 


spirit  with  ^l.ich  t!  Izfl  upc.n  any  opportunity  of  obtaining 

redress  ami  remedy  tor  the  evils  an«l  injuries  of  wliicli  they  com- 
plain.  I.ct  North  and  South  consider,  and  be  wisr  in  season. 
The  usual  caprice  in  the  destiny  of  nations  precipitates  catastro 
phes  which  men  may  lament  but  never  repair  :  and  one  of  the 
ni<>>t  dangerous  of  the  errors  which  prevail  among  the  people  of 
the  North,  is  their  obstinate  faith  in  the  integrity  of  the  Union. 
It  is  a  faith  against  which  all  histories,  in  all  periods,  bear  the 
most  unvarying  testimony  —  testimony  which  we  should  be  au 
thorized  to  disregard  and  reject,  only  when  we  shall  be  able  to 
.  .  e  oiirsel\v>  that  we  have  stronger  claims,  by  reason  of  our 
•er  virtues,  upon  the  protecting  care  of  God,  than  any  of 
the  i  ••neratiiuis  by  which  we  have  been  preceded.  But, 

to  the  essay  of  our  orator,  which,  though  extempore,  was  deliv- 
as  rapidly  as  an  oration  memorixed  ;  not  as  if  read  simply, 
but  with  the  freedom  of  one  who  declaims  passionately,  in  hot 
blood,  and  with  the  bold  impetuous  action  of  a  fiery  soul,  in 
\\hich  tlie  long-fettered  torrents  have  at  length  broken  all  their 
barrier-,  and  are  dashing  headlong,  in  foam  and  fury,  over  the 
still  resisting  hut  incapable  rock. 

"Yes,  soft-heads  !  soft-head.-.!     That  is  th»>  word  —  soft-hea 
Hut  there  is  hope,  even  fnr  a  soft-head  !" 

"We  should  only  be  indulging  in  one  of  the  commonest  of  all 
trui-m.-.  were  we  to  protest  that  there  is  no  such  tiling  as  unmixed 
evil  in  the  world  ;  and  all  the  philosophy  may  he  compassed  in 
«,  nut-shell,  which  chuckles  over  the  'ill  w:nd  that  blows  nobody 
good.'  It  will  suffice  if  we  in>i>t  that  our  bitter  is,  frequently, 
the  wholesome  iiM-dieine  whose  benefit  is  in  the  future;  and  what 
we  regard  as  the  mishap  of  the  day,  and  lament  accord;: 

•nes  to  ,,ur  irreat  *urpri<e.  the  parent  of  a  n.-re^ity  that 
leads  to  most  pleasant  and  profitable  results.  To  bring  our  max 
ims  to  bear  upon  our  pre-ent  topi,-,  we  have  but  to  remark,  that 
the  cholera,  which  '  <\  the  cities  of  the  North  last  summer, 

and  the  abolition  mania,  —  which  is  destined  to  root  them  out, 
and  ra'/e  them  utterly  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  if  not  season 
ably  arrested.  —  have  proved,  in  highly  serviceable, 

it  not  saving  influences,  for  the  p.-.  pie  of  the  South.  How 
many  th'.u-and  of  our  wandering  idlers,  our  absentees  who  peri 
odically  crave  a  wearisome  pilgrimage  to  northern  regions,  in 


390  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

stead  of  finding  greater  good  in  a  profitable  investment  of  thought 
and  curiosity  at  home  —  who  wander  away  in  mere  listlessness 
and  return  wearied  and  unrefreshed —  were  denied  their  usual 
inane  indulgences  by  the  dread  of  pestilence.  And  how  many 
other  thousands,  capable  of  appreciating  the  charms  of  nature, 
and  the  delights  of  a  glorious  landscape,  were,  in  like  manner, 
compelled  to  forego  the  same  progress,  by  the  patriotic  sentiment 
which  revolts  at  the  thought  of  spending  time  and  money  among  a 
people  whose  daily  labor  seems  to  be  addressed  to  the  neighborly 
desire  of  defaming  our  character  and  destroying  our  institutions. 
"  The  result  of  these  hostile  influences  has  been  highly  favor 
able  to  the  development  of  the  resources  of  the  soil.  We  have, 
in  the  South,  a  race  of  'soft-heads,'  —  a  tribe  that  corresponds 
admirably  with  the  'dough-faces'  of  Yankee-land.  These  are 
people  born  and  wedded  to  a  sort  of  provincial  servility  that 
finds  nothing  grateful  but  the  foreign.  They  prefer  the  stranger 
to  the  native,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  because  they  are  re 
luctant  to  admit  the  existence  of  any  persons,  in  their  own  pre 
cincts,  who  might  come  in  conflict  with  their  own  importance. 
In  like  manner,  and  for  a  similar  reason,  they  refuse  to  give  faith 
to  their  own  possessions  of  scenery  and  climate.  Their  dignity 
requires  foreign  travel  for  its  proper  maintenance.  It  is  distance 
only,  in  their  eyes,  that  can  possibly  '  lend  enchantment  to  the 
view.'  They  are  unwilling  to  admit  the  charms  of  a  region 
which  might  be  readily  explored  by  humbler  persons;  and  they 
turn  up  their  lordly  noses  at  any  reference  to  the  claim>  ••! 
mountain,  valley,  or  waterfall,  in  their  own  section,  if  for  no  other 
reason  than  because  they  may  also  be  seen  by  vulgar  people. 
To  despise  the  native  and  domestic,  seems  to  them,  in  their  in 
flated  folly,  the  only  true  way  to  show  that  they  have  tastes  in 
finitely  superior  to  those  of  the  common  herdlings. 

t  such  jKM»ple,it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  they  slxuihl 
1  abroad  in  summer.  The  habit  required  it,  and  the  seli- 
ni,  even  if  ti ..  did  not.  Jt  is  true  that  thev  \\eie 

wearied  with  the  monotonous  routine.      It  is  true  that  they  wen- 
tired  of  the   scenery  so  often  witnessed;    tired  of  the  ilatue 
northern  pastimes,  and  outraged  constantly  by  the  bad  manners, 
*nd  the  unqualified   monstrosity  of  the   bores  whom   they  con 
stantly  encountered,  from  the  moment  that  they  got  beyond  the 


.  HAN<,K-    IN    -iiciKTY.  391 

Ikie  of  Mason  and  Dixon.     All   tin-  social  training  of  a  polished 

'     ll«'HH>,    fl  1     l.y    the     red. 

hy  which    that  was  distinguished   which    they  mot   ahroad —  the 

free,  familiar  ,  !'  moneyed   vulgarity.  or  the  ins.-lent  Q8- 

snnij  .{    at   the 

lucation.      A  thousand    oiYru-ive    traits  in    the 

.]  world  which  they  sought,  added  to  the  utter  deficiency  of 
all    1  in    the   associations  which    they  periodically  made, 

comhined  to  lessen  or  destroy  every  tiling    like   a  positive  attrac- 

:n  the  regions  to  which  they  wandered  ;    hnt.  in  spite  of  all, 
they  \\ent.      JIahit  was    too    intlexihle    f..r    lettM    Of    taste  ;    and, 

'i'ly,  the  fear  that  the  world  iniirht  not  get  on  so  well  Bl 

.  unless  they  appeared   as   u-ual  at  the  (.j.rnin^  <»f  t' 
in    Uroadwuv,  and    tmind    theniMd\res,  for   a  w<-ek    at    lea>t    t-ach 
year,    at    Newport    and    Saratoga,    si-cnu-il    to   ni;fke   it    a    duty 
that  they  -hould,  ;-t  hr^e  iieciiniary  sacrifice,  Mihniit  to  a  dreary 
j»-nanc»-  e\cry  Miniiner. 

"  Hut  flu-  clioh-ra  came  in  conflict  with  the  hahit.  It.  unsettled 
the  routine  which  was  only  endurahle  in  the  ahsence  of  thought 
and  .  i  ted  unpleasant  associations  to  those  who, 

perhaps,  would   sutler  under  any  s'>rt  of  excitement,  the  w; 

v.  ell  as  the  pernicious;    ami    the    idea  of  eatinir  chenies 

and    cream,    at    the    peril    of  utter    revolution    in    the    ahdominal 

domain,  had  the  etVect  of  startling  into  thought  and   speculation 

;ane  int.dh-ct  which,  hitherto,  had  taken  no  share  in  regula- 

:he   hahits  of  the  wanderer.     When,  at   the   same   time,  it 

was    found    that    the     pestilence    confined     its    ravages    to    the 

h. — that    either    the    climate    of    the    South    was    tOt    : 
or   ti,  of  it.s    p«M.ple    too    j. roper,  to  \  ieid  it  the  requisite 

field  for  operation,  —  ami  that  Charleston.  Savannah  and  other 
eitir.s  in  the  low  latitudes,  were  not  within  the  reach  of  its  ter- 

—  thru  it  was   that    patriotism  had  leave  to  .surest,  for  the 
l:i-t  time,  the  heauties  ami  attractions  of  home,  and  to  make  the 

"f  them.      IJer  argument    found    >ucc"r.  a-  \\  e  have  h! 
from   other   influences.      (  )ur  '  Soft  heads'    no    longer   f.,Mnd    that 
unlimited    del-  id    servile    acknowledgment,    which    the 

societies  they  visited  had  uniformly  .shown,  in  return  for  their 
patronage.  Society  at  the  North  was-  in  revolution.  Old  things 
\\ere  rl><>ut  t"  iy;  all  things  were  to  heo-me  n«^\  I'r-p- 


392  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

erty  was  to  undergo  general  distribution  in  equal  shares.  Every 
man,  it  was  argued,  had  a  natural  right  to  a  farmstead;  and  a 
poultry-yard  ;  as  every  woman,  not  wholly  past  bearing,  had  a 
right  to  a  husband.  The  old  Patroons  of  Albany  were  not  per 
mitted  to  rent,  but  must  sell  their  lands,  at  prices  prescribed  by 
the  buyer,  or  the  tenant.  Debtors  liquidated  their  bonds  in  the 
Llood  of  their  creditors.  The  law  of  divorce  gave  every  sort 
of  liberty  to  wife  and  husband.  The  wife,  if  she  did  not  avail 
herself  of  the  extreme  privilegea  accorded  to  her  by  this  benev 
olent  enactment,  was,  at  all  events,  allowed  to  keep  her  own 
purse,  and  to  spend  her  monev,  however  viciously,  without  ac 
counting  to  her  lord.  If  he  was  lord,  she  was  lady.  She  was 
not  simply  his  master,  but  her  own  ;  and  a  precious  household 
they  made  of  it  between  them.  Churches  multiplied,  mostly,  at 
the  very  moment  when  a  restless  and  powerful  party  —  avowedly 
hostile  to  all  religion  —  was  denouncing  and  striving  to  abolish 
the  Sabbath  itself,  as  immoral,  and  in  conflict  with  the  privileges 
of  labor  and  the  citizen. 

"  In  this  universal  disorder  in  laws  and  morals  —  this  confusion 
of  society,  worse  confounded  every  day  —  in  its  general  aspects 
so  wonderfully  like  those  which,  in  France,  preceded,  and  prop 
erly  paved  the  way  for,  a  purging  reign  of  terror  —  all  the  usual 
amenities  and  courtesies  were  fairly  at  an  end,  even  in  those 
places,  hotels  and  haunts  of  summer  festivity,  in  which  decency 
and  policy,  if  not  charity  and  good-will  to  men,  requires  that 
everything  should  be  foreborne,  of  manner  or  remark,  that  might 
be  offensive  to  any  sensibilities.  But  the  cloud  and  blindness 
which  everywhere  overspread  society,  was  a  madness  too  sweep 
ing  to  forbear  any  subject,  in  which  envy,  malice,  conceit,  and 
a  peevish  discontent,  could  find  exercise  at  the  expense  of  one's 
neighbor.  In  destroying,  at  home,  the  securities  of  religion,  the 
domestic  peace  of  families,  the  inviolability  of  the  laws,  the  guar 
antees  of  the  creditor — nay,  taking  his  life,  as  that  of  an  inso 
lent,  when  he  presumed  to  urge  his  bond  —  these  reckless  incen 
diaries  (like  the  French,  exactly)  must  carry  their  beautiful  sys 
tem  to  the  hearts  of  other  communities.  Tl.ey  are  by  no  means 
selfish.  They  must  share  their  admirable  blessings  with  others 
—  nay,  force  them,  even  against  their  desires,  to  partake  of  their 
drunken  mixtures.  No  situation,  accordingly  is  sacred  from 


HOW    THK    IM><;>    BARK.  393 

their  invasion.     No  refuge  is  left  fa  unembarrassed  by 

tlieir   piv  They    rage    in   all    places,   fireside,    street,   ex 

change.  Imtcl,   and,  not    so   much   seeking  to  reform   and   teach, 
and    annoy,  they    studiously  thrust   npon   you,  at 
y   turn,  the   picture   of  the   miserable   fanatic,  whose   vanity 
prompted   him  to   fire   a  temple- only  that  he  might  be  seen  in 
its  Idaze. 

"Our  'Soft-heads,'  who  liave  heen  husily  engaged,  for  the 
last  thirty  years,  in  feeding  these  fanatics,  by  draining  the  prof 
its  from  tlieir  own  soil,  are,  at  length,  beginning  to  feel  some 
what  nnconifortahle,  sitting  cheek-by-jowl,  at  Saratoga,  and 
other  places  of  vulgar  resort,  and  hearing  themselves  described 

rs  and  wretches  by  the  very  people  whose    thieving  an- 
rhe    negro  with  whom   to   swindle   our  forefathers. 

jin  to  suspect  that  their  pride  is  not  wholly  unimpaired, 
when  they  hearken  quietly  to  such  savory  communications.  A 
lurking  doubt  whether  they  are  not  the  persons  meant,  all  the 
while,  begins  to  stir  uneasily  within  them  ;  and  in  a  half-drowsy 
state.  and  thought,  they  a-k  tl.  -  the 

•  jUrstion,  whether  it  were  not  much  more  to  their  credit  to  re 
solve,  henceforward,  neither  to  taste.  n«»r  touch,  nor  commune 
with  a  people,  who,  in  nine  wantonness  and  insolence,  are  ma 
king  .so  free  with  all  the  securities  of  their  country,  its  reputa 
tion,  and  its  property  ! 

"  TK.-  '  S..ft-head.'  it  i.s  true,  is  not  without  grateful  a^sura; 
from  one  class  of  his  neighbors,  thai  his  assailants  I 
fanatics  who  deserve  IM  sort  of  consideration  ;  that,  though  T 
Hlnnrlte,  and    Sweetheart,  bark    at    him  furiously,  yet    he.   I  Mck, 
and  his  brother  Tom,  ami    his  C..UMII.  Harry,  all  tavern-keepers, 
living    in  the  broad    route  of  southern   travel,  are    :  is  — 

are    the    true,  sturdv  1  utcher's  dogs,  who  will    keep   the    en: 
proper  fear  and  at    a  proper  distance.      Hut,  after  a  win! 
head'    a-ks    him>elf — having    asked    the    question    frui' 
Tom,   Hick,  and    Harry  —  \\hy  do  the-e   cur-,  whirh    aie  said   to 
be    s-    li.-sj.'u-.i!  h-  —  \\hy    do    they  c'-ntinue    this    barking?     : 
vhv,    when    the    barking    becomes    biting  —  why    do    not    these 
i.>  butcher's  dogs  u>e  their   teeth  for  the  protection  «-f  their 
friends?      Why  are  Tray.  Hlanche,  and  S  : — wortlileM 

)»u]>pies   u>   they   are  —  why  me   they  in   full  m   of  the 


394  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

roast  ?  The  fanatics  of  abolition  are  said  to  be  few  ;  but  why 
do  they  shape  the  laws,  dictate  the  policy,  control  the  whole  ac 
tion  of  society  ?  '  Soft-head'  gets  no  answer  to  all  this ;  and 
now  naturally  begins  to  suspect  that  all  parties  either  think  en 
tirely  with  the  offenders,  or  possess  too  little  courage,  honesty, 
or  proper  sympathy  with  the  south,  ever  to  be  relied  upon  as 
allies.  In  fact,  our  'soft-head'  discovers  that,  whether  guilty  or 
otherwise,  the  party  denounced  as  so  weak  and  worthless,  wields, 
in  reality,  the  entire  power,  and  represents  wholly  the  principles 
and  feelings  of  the  north.  The  thing  is  not  to  be  gainsayed. 
Your  merchant,  having  large  dealings  with  the  '  soft-heads,' 
makes  little  of  it ;  your  hotel-keeper,  entertaining  large  squad 
rons  of  '  soft-heads,'  '  for  a  consideration,'  every  summer, 
gravely  insists  that  it  is  nothing  but  the  buzz  of  a  bee  in  a  tar- 
barrel  ;  your  Yankee  editor,  crossing  the  line  of  Mason  and 
Dixon —  a  northern  man  with  southern  principles!  who  teaches 
the  '  soft-head  southron/  from  '  hard-bead  northern  school- 
books' — he  is  potent  in  the  asseveration  that  there  is  no  sort  of 
danger  —  that  it  is  the  cry  of '  wolf,'  only,  made  by  the  cunning 
boys,  who  wish  to  see  the  fun  of  the  false  chase  ;  and  that,  in 
his  hands,  as  grand  conservator  of  the  peace,  everything  that's 
worth  saving  is  in  a  place  of  eminent  security.  Your  thorough 
slave  of  party,  whig  or  democrat,  who  hopes  for  a  secretaryship, 
or  a  vice-presidentship,  or  a  foreign  mission  —  or  who,  with  com 
mendable  modesty,  resigns  himself  to  a  postmastersliij),  or  a 
tide-waitership  —  all  these  come  in  to  the  assistance  of  our  '  soft 
heads,'  and  take  monstrous  pains  to  reassure  them  and  restore 
their  equanimity  !  Governed  by  self,  rather  than  by  nation  or 
section,  they  cry  'peace' — all  —  when  there  is  no  pence! 
When  there  can  not  be  peace,  so  long  as  the  south  is  in  the 
minority,  and  so  long  as  the  spirit  and  temper  of  the  north  are 
uiiversally  hostile,  to  our  most  vital  and  most  cherished  insti 
tutions.  Until  you  reconcile  this  inequality,  and  exorcise  this 
evil  spirit,  that  now  rages  rampant  through  the  Northern  States 
—  allied  with  all  sorts  of  fanatical  passions  and  principles  — 
Agrarianism,  Communism,  Fourierism,  Wrightism,  Millerism, 
Mormoniam,  etc., — you  may  cry  peace  and  union  till  you  split 
your  lungs,  but  you  will  neither  make  peace  nor  secure  uniou. 
"  Well,  our  '  soft-head*  begim  to  discover  this,  lie  has  been 


SOFT-HEAD    A    PERSON'   OF   SOFT    HEART.  395 

weak  and  lazy — listless  and  indifferent —  vain,  and  an  idler; 
weary,  and  a  wanderer;  but  lie  still  has  latent  sympathies  that 
remind  him  of  his  homo,  and  he  is  not  blind  to  the  warnings 
which  tell  him  that  he  has  a  property  which  is  threatened,  and 
may  possibly  he  destroyed,  II.'  nibs  his  eyes,  and  shakos  him- 
rdiiiirly.  He  lupins  to  bestir  himself.  It  is  hijrh  time. 
II.'  i^  DO  l..n«r-'r  in  the  condition  to  say  with  the  i.'A 

little  more  sleep —  a  little  more  folding  of  the  arms  to  slumber.' 
'  Tray,  Blanche,  and  Sweetheart,1  the  full-monthcd  abolition 
curs,  are  at  his  bods,  and,  with  their  incessant  harking,  they 
nobody  to  sleep.  'Soft-head'  soon  finds  that  they  are, 
not  satisfied  to  hark  simply.  Thoy  are  anxious  to  use  their 
teeth  np«»n  him  as  well  as  their  tongues.  His  wife's  maid,  Sally, 

isuadrd  to  leave  his  bonds,  for  a  condition  of  unexampled 
human  felicity,  which  is  promised  her  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Five  r..int<:    and  his  man,  Charle>,  walks  oft'  with    two   1... 
white  brother-.  OOfi   show  him   how  much  move  moral  it  is 

come  a  burglar  than  t«>  remain  a  slave.  'Soft-head'  very 
«oon  hear-  of  b.-th  in  their  new  I'topia.  Sally  writes  to  him 
froi:  r  Hhu'kwell's  Island,  ami  Charley  from  > 

They  relate    a    mo>t    Imrriil    narrative  of  their  condition  ; 

their  tollies,  their  crimes,  the  sufferings  and  abuses  they  have  un- 

.it  the  bands  of  their  s\  mpathmng  brethren,  wh..-.-   «.h- 

joct  l;as  b.-en,  not  the  good  of  the  wretched  slave.  1  ut  the  injury 

and   annoyance    of  the   'soft-head'   owner.      They    declare   their 

.  t.nire.  and  entreat  his  ,         |  .     'I'!  .  \   b.  .:  that  he  will  re- 

tliem  from  prison,  and  make  them  once  more  humbly  happy 

in  the  condition  \\hich  '-tly  suited  t«»  their  intellect  and 

iimrals.      The  1,,-ai't  of  '  ^'fr-ln-ail'  i-  touched.      In  this  rr^i.-n  he, 

is  ijniie  as  ti'nib>r  as:  in  IP'S  cranium.     He  obtains  their  ii' 

I  bail,  j>.:;  a  w.uhl  of  trouble  ami  • 

in  helpin  •.  liL'ht.      Hut,  will  the  aboli 

tionists    suffer    this    triumph  ?      Will    they    let    th<  ,-npe 

them  at  the  last  ?      Oh  no!      The}'  dart   i  i  mob  at  their 

heels,  and  rend  Charley  Mid    S;dly  away  once  more  —  this  time 
by  violence  —  the   poor  darkies  all  the  while   htni^lin£  againet 
the  cruel  fate  of  freedom,  for  which  they  are  so  totally  unfit,  and 
declaring,  with    tears    in    their    ryes,  how    infinitely    they    p 
being  slaves  to  a  geiitlemnu,  than  bretbreu  of  such  a  gang  of 


396 

blackguards.  '  Soft-head,'  himself,  barely  escapes  by  the  skin 
of  his  teeth.  lie  is  compelled  to  cast  off  the  indolence  which 
he  has  hitherto  fondly  conceived  to  form  a  part  of  his  dipiity, 
and,  with  all  haste,  to  throw  the  Potomac  between  him  and  the 
pursuing  curs  of  abolition. 

"  Growling  over  the  popular  sentiment  at  the  North,  which 
thus  dogs  their  footsteps  and  disturbs  their  equanimity,  or  Crum 
bling  at  the  sudden  invasion  of  cholera,  which  makes  them  trem 
ble  for  their  bowels,  it  is  probable  that  more  than  twenty  thou 
sand  Southrons  forebore,  last  summer,  their  usual  route  of  travel. 
M;i son  and  Dixon's  line,  that  season,  constituted  the  ultima  (huh, 
to  which  they  looked  with  shiverings  only.  Thus  *  barred  and 
banned,'  almost  hopeless  of  enjoyment,  but  compelled  to  seek 
for  it  where  they  were,  and  to  find  their  summer  routes  and  rec 
reations  in  long-neglected  precincts,  it  was  perfectly  delightful 
to  behold  the  sudden  glory  which  possessed  them,  as  they 
opened  their  eyes,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  upon  the 
charming  scenery,  the  pure  retreats,  the  sweet  quiet,  and  the 
surprising  resources  which  welcomed  them  —  at  home  !  Why 
had  they  not  seen  these  things  before  ?  How  was  it  that 
such  glorious  mountain  ranges,  such  fertile  and  lovely  valleys, 
such  mighty  ami  beautiful  cascades,  such  broad,  hard  and  ocean- 
girdled  beaches  and  inlets,  had  been  so  completely  hidden  from 
their  eyes  1  By  what  fatuity  was  it  that  they  had  been  so 
blinded,  to  the  waste  of  millions  of  expenditure,  in  the  ungrate 
ful  regions  in  which  they  had  so  long  been  satisfied  to  find  re 
treats,  which  afforded  them  so  little  of  pleasure  or  content? 
Poor,  sneaking,  drivelling,  conceited,  slavish  provincialism  never 
received  such  a  lesson  of  unmixed  benefit  before  ;  and  patriot 
ism  never  a  happier  stimulus  and  motive  to  future  enjoyment  as 
well  as  independence. 

"  It  is  a  too  melancholy  truth,  and  one  that  we  would  fain  deny 
it'  we  dan-d.  that,  in  sundry  essentials,  the  Southern  people  have. 
long  stood  in  nearly  the  same  relation  to  the  Northern  states 
of  this  eonfeilcracv,  that  the  whole  of  the  colonies,  in  1?7.">.  oc 
cupied  to  (Jreat  Britain.  A  people  wholly  devoted  to  gra/ing 
and  agriculture  are  necessarily  wanting  in  large  marts,  which 
alone  give  the  natural  impulse  to  trade  and  manufactures.  A 
people  engaged  in  staple  culture  are  necessarily  scatter*  1  r,  - 


ITIY    OF    ART    TO    S.U 

motely  over  the  surface  of  the  earth.  N-.\v,  tin-  activity  of  the 
common  intellect  depends  chielly  UJM.II  the  mu^h  ami  inre»;mt 
attrition  of  the  people.  Wantin-:  in  this  attrition,  the  best  inindR 
sink  into  ptppte,  that  finally  becomes  .slu^gishnesr-.  A-  a  nat 
ural  consequence,  therefore,  of  the  exclusive  occupation  of  agri 
culture  in  the  Smith,  the  profits  of  this  culture,  and  the  -j 

ur  population,  the  Southern  people  1,-t'r  it  t«>  the  \oi  them 

M;pl.lv  all  their  wants.  To  them  wo  looked  for  1 
and  opinion  —  and  they  thus  substantially  ruled  us.  through  the 
languor  which  wr  OWfMJ  to  our  wealth,  and  the  deficient  sclf-es- 
te.-m  naturally  due  to  the  infre<juencv  of  our  btrujrgle  in  the 
:aon  marts  i.f  nati««n>.  The  Yankees  furnished  all  our  man 
ufactures.,  of  \\h,:tever  kind,  and  adroitly  contrived  to  make  it 
appear  to  u-  that  they  .ily  mir  !  enefactoi  s.  at  the  veiy 

monit'Ut  when  they  were  s;ipp'.njr  "in  suK-t;mce.  de^rndin^  our 
minds,  and  ^ro\vin^  rich  upon  our  raw  u.aserial,  and  hv  the  la 
bor  of  our  slaves.  Any  nation  that  defers  thus  wholly  to  another 
IB  so  dat.-d.  ;ind  finally  suluiued.  T«.  perfect,  or  « 

sefure,  the  p..\\er>  of  any  {tropic,  it  re<juire>  that  they  shall 
leave  in-  pr«. \ince  of  enterprise  or  industry  ne^lerted,  which  is 
available  to  their  lab.u-,  and  not  inc-onipatihle  with  their  soil  and 
climate,.  And  tin-re  is  an  intimate,  sympathy  betwfen  the  labors 
of  a  people,  and  their  higher  morals  and  more  ambitious  senti- 
mei.t.  '1  :e  all  so  far  kindred,  that  the,  o:  'lily 

prej'  '.vay  f«r   the   other.      The    im-diMmc    arts   thrive  as 

well  a«  the  fine  arts,  in  re-i«>ns  which    prove  friendly  to  the 
tor;   and  Henvenuto  (',  ;>  a  goldsmith 

and    cannoneer    than    a  '    1  «.ld    and    admirable 

Fculptors  of  his  a^re.      To  secure  a  hi«rh  rank  in  ns  well  a-; 

iy.  it    i*  !  that  a  pe«,ple  vhonhl    do  something  r 

than  provide  a  ra\\    material.      It  i<  re.juired  of   them  to  | 
the  genius  al-o,  which  shall  w«>rk  the  material  up  into  f 
fabrics    e(jually    beautiful    and    \aluahle.       This    duty    1. 
neglected    by   the    South  ;    abandoned    to   her   enemies  ;    and,  iu 
the  train  of  this  neglect  and  >«  If-abandonim  nt,  a  thousand  | 
folio v.  •  :  '>-.       1  !  is  a  sla 

vish  deference  to  the  will,  the  wit,  the  wisih>m,  the  art  and  inge 
nuity  of  the  people  to  whom  we  yield  our  manufacture*  ;  innking 
it  the  moat  difficult  thing  in  the  world,  even  when  our  own  p«o- 


898 

pie  achieve,  to  obtain  for  them  the  simplest  justice,  even  among 
themselves.  We  surrendered  ourselves  wholly  into  the  hands 
of  our  Yankee  brethren  —  most  loving  kinsmen  that  they  are  — 
and  were  quite  content,  in  asserting  the  rank  of  genth-mcn,  to 
forfeit  the  higher  rank  of  men.  We  were  sunk  into  a  certain 
imbecility  —  read  from  their  books,  thought  from  their  standards, 
shrunk  from  and  submitted  to  their  criticism  —  and  (No  !  wo 
have  not  yet  quite  readied  that  point — Walker  still  holding  his 
ground  in  the  South  against  Webster),  almost  began  to  adopt 
their  brogne  !  They  dictated  to  our  tastes  and  were  alone  al 
lowed  to  furnish  the  proper  regions  for  their  exercise.  Above 
all,  theirs  was  all  the  scenery;  and  the  tour  to  Saratoga,  West 
Point,  Newport,  Niagara,  almost  every  season,  was  a  sort  of 
pilgrimage,  as  necessary  to  the  eternal  happiness  of  our  race  of 
'  soft-heads,'  as  ever  was  that  made,  once  in  a  life,  to  Mecca,  by 
the  devout  worshipper  in  the  faith  of  Islam  ! 

"  But,  owing  to  causes,  already  indicated,  the  change  has  come 
over  the  spirit  of  that  dream  which  constituted  too  much  the 
life  of  too  large  a  portion  of  our  wealthy  gentry ;  and  the  last 
summer,  as  we  said  before,  left  them  at  liberty  to  look  about 
their  own  homes,  and  appreciate  their  own  resources.  The  dis 
coveries  were  marvellous ;  the  developments  as  surprising  as 
those  which  followed  the  friction  of  the  magic  lamp  in  the  hands 
of  Aladdin.  Encountered,  on  the  opposite  side  of  Mason  and 
Dixon's  Line,  by  the  loathsome  presence  of  Asiatic  cholera  and 
African  abolition,  they  averted  their  eyes  from  these  equally  of 
fensive  aspects,  and  found  a  prospect,  when  looking  backward 
upon  the  South,  at  once  calculated  to  relieve,  their  annovai 
and  compensate  admirably  for  all  their  privations.  The  tide  of 
travel  was  fairly  turned  ;  and,  through  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  land,  in  the  several  States  of  Virginia,  the  two  Carolinas, 
Georgia,  and  even  Florida,  nothing  was  to  he  seen  but  the 
chariots  and  the  horsemen,  the  barge  and  the  car,  hearing  to  new 
and  lately  discovered  retreats  of  health  and  freshness,  the  hun 
gering  wanderers  after  pleasure  and  excitement.  For  such  an 
event,  the  country  was  almost  totally  unprepared.  A  few  ancient 
places  of  resort  excepted,  the  numerous  points  of  assemblage 
had  scarcely  ever  been  indicated  on  the  maps.  The  means  for 
them  were  rude  and  hastily  provided,  The  r<>n<U  \ 


SOCIAL    ATTRITION. 

rough,  and,  with  the  vehicles  employed  to  traverse  them,  admi- 
rahly  adapted  to  give  wholesome  exercise  to  rheumatic  joints  and 
-terns.  The  crazie.st  carriages  were  hastily  put  in 
requisition,  to  run  upon  the  wildest  highways.  Paths,  only  ju>t 
"lit  in  the  woods,  conducted  you  to  habitations  scarcely 
wild,  of  frames  covered  with  clapboards, —  ^after-looking 
log  tenements,  unplastered  chambers,  and  little  uncouth  cabins, 

eight  bv  nvelvt win-re  pride,  in  the  lap  of  quiet,  at  all  events, 

if  not  of  comfort,  might  learn  upon  what  a  .small  amount  of  cap 
ital  a  man  may  realize  large  results  in  health  and  independence. 
It  was  the  strangest  spectacle,  in  Georgia  and  South  Carolina, 
to  see  the  thousands  thus  in  motion  along  the  highways,  and 
thus  rioting  in  rustic  pleasuivs.  Such  ears  and  carriages,  as  bore 
the  tro.. ping  adventurers,  never  figured  in  fa.^hionable  use  before, 
might  sec  the  railway  trains,  long  and  massive  frames  of 
timber,  set  on  wheels,  with  unplaned  benches,  an  interminable 
range,  crowded  with  the  living  multitudes,  wedged  aflectionately 
together,  like  herring.s  in  boxes  —  sorted,  if  not  salted  n:a>ses — 
without  covering,  speeding  through  sun  by  day,  and  rain  by 
night,  to  the  appointed  places  of  retreat ;  and,  strange  to  say, 
in  the  best  of  all  possible  humors  with  theniseh  e.s  and  all  man 
kind.  A  certain  grateful  determination  to  make  the  most  of  the 
of  their  situation,  in  acknowledgment  of  the 

substantial  good,  in  he.-slthy  excitement,  and  moral  compensation, 
which  tb'  •  d  at  home,  npcrafed  to  make  cheerful   all    the 

aspects  of  tin-  .nd  to  nfford  a  pleasing  animation  to  the 

strangest  combinations  of  society.       11.  tered,  to  the 

:non  benefit,  circles  and  cliques  that  had  never  before   1 
subjected   to  attrition.     The  reserved  gentleman  of  the  lower 
country,  nice,  staid,  proper  and  particular,  was  pleased  to  re* 
a  freshening  stimulus   from   the    frank,  free,  eager  and    salient 
manners  of  the   gentleman   of  the   interior.        1  •- .  r-rcfmrd 

ladies  of  the  city  were  enlivened    by  the  informal,  hearty,  h 
and  laughing  tempei-  of  the  bin.ynnt    beauties  of  the  mountain 
and  forest  country.      These  .shared  equally  in  the  benefits  of 
association.    The  :  gion 

were    th;r  i.il    and    buoyant,  the    i: 

pbisticated    impulse   of  the   other;    while    the   lutter,  insensibly 
borrowed,  in  return,  something  of  the  elaborate  grace,  and  tho 


400 

quiet  dignity,  which  constitute  the  chief  attractions  of  the  former. 
The  result  1ms  compassed  something  more  than  was  anticipated 
by  the  several  parties.  Seeking  only  to  waste  a  summer  prate- 
fully,  to  find  health  and  gentle  excitements,  —  the  simple  object 
of  the  whole,  —  they  yet  found  more  precious  benefits  in  the  un 
wonted  communion.  Prejudices  were  worn  away  in  the  grate 
ful  attrition  ;  new  lights  were  brought  to  bear  upon  the  social 
aspects  of  differing  regions ;  thought  was  stimulated  to  fresh 
researches ;  and  the  general  resources  of  the  country,  moral  as 
well  as  physical,  underwent  a  development,  as  grateful  and  en 
couraging  as  they  were  strange  and  wonderful  to  all  the  parties. 
"  The  desagrcinms  of  these  extemporaneous  progresses  were 
not  limited  to  bad  roads  and  clumsy  or  crazy  vehicles,  rude  dwel 
lings,  and  the  absence  of  the  usual  comforts  upon  which  the 
gentry  of  the  low  country  of  the  South,  trained  in  English 
schools,  are  apt  to  insist  with,  perhaps,  a  little  too  much  tenacity. 
We  are  compelled  to  make  one  admission,  in  respect  to  our  in 
terior,  which  we  do  in  peat  grief  of  heart  and  much  vexation 
of  spirit.  If  the  school  muster  is  abroad,  the  cook  is  not!  Our 
cf/isitti1  is  not  well  ordered  in  the  forest  country.  The  'Physiolo 
gic,  dc  Gout'  has  never  there  been  made  a  text-book,  in  the 
schools  of  culinary  philosophy.  We  doubt  if  a  single  copy  of 
this  grave  authority  can  be  found  in  all  the  mountain  ranges  of 
the  Apalachian.  They  have  the  grace  and  the  gravy  ;  but  these 
are  not  made  to  mingle  as  they  should.  The  nil  which  weds 
the  vinegar  and  the  oil,  in  happiest  harmonies,  so  that  neither 
is  Buffered  to  prevail  in  the  taste,  has  never,  in  this  region,  com 
manded  that  careful  Ktlidy,  or  indeed  consideration,  which  their 
union  properly  demands.  The  rank  of  the  cuisinicr  is  not  prop 
erly  recognised.  The  weight  and  importance  of  a  grain  of  salt 
in  the  adjustment  (shall  we  ^;iy  ro mpro mi sc  ?)  of  a  salade,  is,  we 
grieve  to  say,  not  justly  understood  in  our  forest  watering-places; 
and,  skilful  enough  at  a  julep  or  a  sherry-colder,  they  betray 
but  ''prentice  ban's'  when  a  steak,  or  a  sauce,  is  the  subject  of 
preparation.  Mon-ieur  (iui/ot,  speaking  in  properly-dignified 
language  of  the  common  sentiment  of  France,  insists  that  she  is 

the  most  perfect  representative  of  the  civilization  of  Christendom. 

Of  course,  lie  ha>e»  h«-r  claims    to    this    position    entirely  on    the 
virtues  of  her  CIHHI  e.      The  nmral  of  Hie  nation  comes  from  tho 


DKKAMS    OK    DIN.VKH.  1   -1 

kitchen.  The  'good  digestion  '  which  should  'wait  on  appetite  ' 
must  be  impossible  where  the  cfit-f  ill-  r ///>///<•  falls  short  of  the 
philosopher  as  well  as  the  man  of  science.  NOW,  of  all  that 
philosophy,  which  prepares  the  food  with  a  due  regard,  not  only 
to  the  meats  and  vegetables  themseh  es,  the  graces  and  the 

ies,  hut  to  the  temperaments  of  the  consumers,  we  are  sorry 
to    confess    that    we    have    but    little    in    our   vast    interior.       i 
mountain   cooks   think    they   have   done   everything  when   they 

have  murdered  a  fillet  of  veal  or  a  hannch  of  venison. »dden 

tliein  in  lard  or  butter,  baked  or  boiled  them  to  a  condition 
which  admirably  resembles  the  pnlpy  masses  of  cotton  rag,  when 
macerated  I'm-  paper  manufacrire, —  and  wonder-  you 

mince  gingerly  of  a  dish  which   he  himself  will  devour  with  the 
savage  appetite  of  a  Cumanche  !      Yon  have    -een   a  royal   side 
of  venison  brought  in  during  the  morning,  and  laid  ont  upon  the 
u  shambles; — yon   have  set  your  heart  upon  the  dinner  ..f 
that  day.      Fancy  reminds  you   of  the    relish  with  which,  at   the 
1  'harles,  in  New-Orleans,  or  the  Tnlaski,  in  Savannah,  or  the 
Charleston    Hotel,   von    have    dismissed    the    exquisitely  dressed 
loin,  or  hannch,  done  to  a  turn  ;    the    red   just  tinging  the  gravy, 
the  meat  just  offering  such    plea-  '-tanee    to    the    knife  as 

leaves  the  intricate  fibres  still  closely  united,  though  shedding 
their  juices  with  the  eagernes>  of  the  peach,  pressed  between 
the  lips  in  the  verv  hour  of  its  maturity;  —  or  you  see  a  fine 
'mutton'  brought  in,  (.f  'he  wild  iiavor  of  the  hills;  and  \^\\ 
:i;ine,  with  the  eye  of  the  epicure,  the  voluminous  fat,  fold 
upon  fold,  lapping  itself  lovingly  about  the  loins.  loin, 

-ddle,  or  shoulder.  :t>eif  to  %  our  anticipation  as  the 

probable    Mibject    <  :  ay  discussion.      You    lay   yourself  out 

1    r  the  argument,  ,:ally  recur  to   the    .  ;;s  dinner 

which  you  enjoyed  with  the  reverend  father,  who  preuides  80 
equally  well  at  tb.e  Church  of  the  St.  Savori.and  at  his  .»\vn  ex- 
cellent  hotel  in  the  Rr.e  des  Iluitre-.  YOU  remember  all  the 

panv.   admirable  j-;  ue   of  them,  of  tl.- 

and  the  graces  of  a  pi-.jier  feast.     The  reverend  father,  bin 
belongs   to    that    excellent    s, •],,„,!    of  which    the    Kngli>h    clergy 
still  show  you   so   many  irrateful   living  examples,  —  men  whose 

"••ilities  are  tp.t  yieldeil  to  the  barren  empire  of  mind  merely, 
but  who  liriug  thought  and  philosophy  e(|nally  to  bear  upon  the 


402  MTTHWAHD    HO! 

humble  and  too  frequently  mortified  flesh.  With  the  spectacle 
of  the  venerable  host,  presiding  so  gracefully  and  so  amiably  — 
the  napkin  tucked  beneath  his  chin,  and  falling  over  the  ample 
domain  in  which  certain  philosophers,  with  much  show  of  reason, 
have  found  the  mortal  abiding  place  of  the  soul  —  you  associate 
the  happy  action  with  which,  slightly  flourishing  the  bright  steel 
before  he  smites,  he  then  passes  the  scimitar-like  edge  into  tho 
rosy  round  before  him.  It  is  no  rude  or  hurried  act.  He  feels 
the  responsibility  of  the  duty.  He  has  properly  studied  the  rela 
tions  of  the  parts.  He  kno\vs  just  where  to  insinuate  the  blade; 
and  the  mild  dignity  with  which  the  act  is  performed,  reminds 
you  of  what  you  have  seen  in  pictures,  or  read  in  books,  of  the 
sacrifices  of  the  high  priests  and  magi,  at  Grecian  or  Egyptian 
altars.  What  silence  waits  upon  the  stroke!  and,  as  the  warm 
blood  gushes  forth,  and  the  rubied  edges  of  the  wound  lie  bare 
before  your  eyes,  every  bosom  feels  relieved !  The  augury  has 
been  a  fortunate  one,  and  the  feast  begins  under  auspices  that 
drive  all  doubts  of  what  to-morrow  may  bring  forth,  entirely 
from  the  thought. 

"  With  such  recollections  kindling  the  imagination,  our  extem 
pore  hotels  of  the  Apalachian  regions  will  doom  you  to  frequent 
disappointment.  You  see  yourself  surrounded  by  masses  that 
may  be  boiled  or  roasted  polypi  for  what  you  know.  But  where's 
the  mutton  and  the  venison  1 

"You  call  upon  the  landlord  —  a  gaunt-looking  tyke  of  the 
forest,  who  seems  better  fitted  to  hunt  the  game  than  take  charge 
of  its  toilet.  He  is  serving  a  score  at  once;  with  one  hand  heap 
ing  beef  and  bacon,  with  the  other  collards  nnd  cucumbers,  into 
conflicting  plates ;  and  you  fall  back  speechless,  with  the  sudden 
dispersion  of  a  thousand  fancies  of  delight,  as  he  tells  you  that 
the  mutton,  or  the  venison,  which  has  been  the  subject  of  your 
revery  all  the  morning,  lies  before  you  in  the  undistinguishablc 
mass  that  has  distressed  you  with  notions  of  the  polypus  ami 
sea-blubber,  or  some  other  unknown  monstrosities  of  the  deep  or 
forest.  But  the  subject  is  one  quite  too  distressing  for  dilation. 
We  have  painful  memories,  and  must  forbear.  But,  we  solemn 
ly  say  to  our  Apalachian  landlord  :  — 

"'Brother,  this  thing  must  be  amended.  You  have  no  right 
to  sport  thus  with  the  hopes,  the  health,  the  happiness  of  yoiu 


A    LOVE   STORY. 

guests.  You  have  no  right,  in  this  wny,  to  mortify  your  neigh- 
bors'  flesh.  Have,  you  no  sense  of  the  evil  which  v<m  are  doing 
—  no  bowels  of  sympathy  for  those  of  other  people  ?  Is  it  pride, 
or  indolence,  or  mere  blindness  and  ignorance,  which  thus  ren 
ders  you  rec  kh-ss  of  what  is  due  to  humanity  and  MMietjr,  and 
all  that  fine  philosophy  which  the  Roman  epicure  found  essential 
'iicile  to  becoming  sensibilities  the  mere  brutish  necessities 
of  the  animal  economy  ?  You  must  import  and  educate  your 
cooks.  You  must  appreciate  justly  the  morals  of  the  kitchen. 
You  must  study  with  diligence,  night  and  morning,  the  profound 
pages  of  the  Physiologic  de  Goat;  you  must  forswear  those 
streams  of  lard,  those  cruel  abuses  of  the  flesh,  those  hard  bak 
of  meats  otherwise  tender;  those  salt  and  savage  soddening.s  "f 
venison,  other  t  ;  those  mountains  of  long  collards,  in 

adequately  ;  boiled  and  those  indigestible  masses  of  dough, 
whether  in  the  form  of  pies,  or  tarts,  or  biscuit,  which  need  a 
yesty  levity  before  they  can  possibly  assimilate  with  the  human 

m      We    have    nfren    thought,  se.-ing   these    lieavv    pa-- 
upon  your  tables,  that,  if  they  could  only  command  a  voice,  r' 
would  perpetually  cry  out  to  the  needy  and  devourini:   gm><t.  in 
the   language  of  the   ghosts   to  Richard   the    Hunchback  —  'Let 
^eavy  .in  thy  .-..ul  to-morrow.'  " 

Here  was  a  pause.     Our  orator  had  fairly  talked  himself  out. 

"11  :  speakiiiL.  n  the    artlessly-expn 

inquiry  ft  Hum-: 

•  (iood   heavens,  my  dear  little  creature,  you  do  not  mean  to 
say  that  you  h.r  keeping  all  the  while  !" 

II-  laugh  ! 

"Oh!  no.  Iff,       1  merely  wished  to  Mii'-gi-st  that  tl:- 
due  t.)  us  from  some  quarter,  and  if  you  are    in  VMC«'.  -ir. —  I  do 
UOt  see  who  can  bet;.  .,n  than    Mmr 

"Voice!  I  never  was  in  brtt.-i  ill  my  life!     You  shall 

have  a  story  and,  ir.  tribute  to  yourself,  it  shall  be  a  love-story." 

"Oh  !  thank  you  —  a  lov, 

"  A  love  story,  and  of  the  red  man." 
'Oh  !  that  will  be  curious  6QOV 

"  It  shall  be  as  malicinu-  and  i.:t:i.etio.  and  sad  and  humor 
nnd   sedate,  and   fantastical,  as    KuUclwe    himself  could    have 
desired." 


404  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

And  the  group  composed  itself  around,  and  the  bilious  raco** 
tour  told  the  following  legend  :  — 


LEGEND  OF  MISSOURI: 
OR,  THE  CAPTIVE  OF  THE  PAWNEE. 

"  A  token  of  the  spirit  land  — 
The  fleeting  gift  of  fairy  hand: 
A  wither' d  loaf,  a  flower  whose  stem 
Once  broke,  we  liken  unto  them  ; 
Thus  fleet  and  fading,  ripe  ere  noon, 
And  vanishing  like  midnight  moon  ; 
A  rainbow  gleum,  that  now  appear*, 
And  melts,  even  as  we  gaze,  to  tears." 

INTRODUCTION. 

THERE  are  certain  races  who  are  employed  evidently  as  the 
pioneers  for  a  superior  people — who  seem  to  have  no  mission 
of  performance, — only  one  of  preparation,  —  and  who  simply 
keep  the  earth,  a  sort  of  rude  possession,  of  which  they  make  no 
use,  yeilding  it,  by  an  inevitable  necessity,  to  the  conquering 
people,  so  soon  as  they  appear.  Our  red  men  seem  to  have  be 
longed  to  this  category.  Their  modes  of  life  were  inconsistent 
with  length  of  tenure ;  and,  even  had  the  white  man  never  ap 
peared,  their  duration  must  have  still  been  short.  They  would 
have  preyed  upon  one  another,  tribe  against  tribe,  in  compliance 
with  neres-ity,  until  all  were  destroyed  ; — and  there  is  nothing 
to  be  deplored  in  this  spectacle  !  Either  they  had  no  further 
uses,  or  they  never,  of  themselves,  developed  them  ;  and  a  people 
that  destroy  only,  and  never  create  or  build,  are  not  designed, 
anywhere,  to  cumber  God's  earth  long  !  This  is  the  substantial 
condition  upon  which  all  human  securities  depend.  We  arc  to 
advance.  We  are  to  build,  create,  endow;  thus  showing  that 
we  are  made  in  the  likeness  of  the  Creator.  Those  who  destroy 
only,  bv  laws  of  strict  moral  justice,  must  perish,  without  having 
been  said  to  live  ! 

And  yet,  surveying  this  spectacle  thro'  the  medium  of  the 
picturesque,  one  naturally  broods  with  sympathy  over  the  fato 
of  this  people.  There  IB  a  solitary  grandeur  in  their  fortunes. 


THE   r.FMt'S    I.ud.  40o 

and  the  intense  melancholy  which  they  oxhihit,  which  compel* 
us,  in   spite   of  philosophy,  to   regret   the    ;  under  which 

thev  perish.  Their  valor,  their  natural  eloquence,  their  pas 
sionate  sense  of  freedom,  the  sad  nohleness  of  their  aspects,  tlie 
subtlety  of  their  genius. —  these  forhid  that  we  should  regard 
tin-in  with  indifference  ;  and  we  watch  their  prolonged  battle  for 
and  place,  with  that  feeling  °f  admiration  with  which 
we  behold  the  "great  man  struggling  uith  the  storms  of  fate." 
The  conflict  het\\eeii  rival  races,  one  representing  the  highest 
civilization,  tlie  other  the.  totally  opposite  nature  of  the  savage, 
is  always  one  of  exquisite  interest;  and  not  an  acre  of  our  N 
country  hut  exhibits  scenes  of  struggle  het ween  these  rivals, 
tvhich,  properly  delineated,  would  ravi>h  from  the  canvass,  and 
Oirill  all  i  frOOQ  the  stage.  The  thousand  progresses,  in 

ill   directions,   of  the   white    pioneer;  —  the    thousand   trials   of 
strength,  and  skill,  and   spirit,  between  him  and  the  red  hunter; 
—  make  of  the  face  of  the  country  one  vast  theatre,  scene  after 
.dliug   the   great  event,  until  all  closes  in  the  grand  de- 
which  exhibits  the  dying  agonies  of  the  with 

the.  conquering  civilization  striding  triumphantly  over  his  neck. 

ition  will   help  us  in   process  of  time   to  '. 

romance  in  the  survey  of  these  events,  and  the  red  man  is  destin 
ed  to  a  longer  life  in  art  than  he  ever  knew  in  reality. 

••  Y<  t  -siiall  iho  prmu*  of  tin-  ]>\ 

In   .lavs  of  p.. I. -lit   .«.IMJ;  \n  rnm^, 

Reveal  th<>  §t«»rv  of  tl:> 

\N  \m#t>  nntivr  poniud  now  li»'8  Huinh. 
Yes,  Fancy,  by  Tnulilimi 

,i  tiurt-  tin-  ?tr.  amli-t  to  iu  bod. 
And  wi-Il  cnrh  anxiou*  puth  «-xj 

,.i-ll!\     t!'"l    i-i    d   ' 

The  t  ••.  ill"  mount,  tho  doll, 

Shnll  «-;i.  h  bfCOOM  ;i  rhr«»ni,-l«'  '. — 
Th«  swift  Inmgir.uti'ia  borno, 

T..  l.oijtbts  of  faith  und  -i>jl«t  "upreme, 
Shnll  giith'  r  all  ;  -.mrn, 

ATI. I  uliajM'  th«-  ih  ti::'i  fr-un  th«-  iln-nm." 

The  sketch  which  follows  might  as  well  be  true  of  a  thousand 
hist  i    the  one  which    :'  It   is   one  which    the 

painter   might    crown  with   all    the  glorie  ne  \slrrh 

futuie  invcntioii  i ..  •    in'-"  perm:\m-nt    sung  am!  - 


406  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

generations,  to  whom  the  memory  of  the  red  man  will  be  nothing 
but  a  dream,  doubtful  in  all  its  changes,  and  casting  doubts  upo 
the  sober  history. 

CHAPTER    I. 

THE  Pawnees  and  the  Omahas  were  neighboring  but  hostile 
nations.  Their  wars  were  perpetual,  and  this  was  due  to  their 
propinquity.  It  was  the  necessity  of  their  nature  and  modes  of 
life.  They  hunted  in  the  same  forest  ranges.  They  were  con 
tending  claimants  for  the  same  land  and  game.  The  successes 
of  the  one  in  the  chase,  were  so  many  wrongs  done  to  the  rights 
of  the  other ;  and  every  buck  or  bear  that  fell  into  the  hands  of 
either  party,  was  a  positive  loss  of  property  to  the  other.  That 
they  should  hate,  and  fight,  whenever  they  met,  was  just  as 
certain  as  that  they  should  eat  of  the  venison  when  the  game 
was  taken.  Every  conflict  increased  the  mutual  hostility  of  the 
parties.  Successes  emboldened  the  repetition  of  assault ;  defeat 
stimulated  the  desire  I'm-  revenue.  Every  scalp  which  provoked 
triumph  in  the  conqueror,  demanded  a  bloody  revenge  at  the 
hands  of  the  vanquished  ;  and  thus  they  brooded  over  bloody  fan 
cies  when  they  did  not  meet,  aii'l  met  only  to  reali/e  their  Moody 
dreams.  It  was  soon  evident  to  them>elves,  if  it  was  not  known 
to  other  nations,  that  the  war  was  one  of  annihilation  —  that 
there  could  be  no  cessation  of  strife  between  them,  until  one  of 
the  parties  should  tear  the  last  scalp  from  the  brows  of  his  hate 
ful  enemy. 

Such  a  conviction,  pressing  equally  upon  the  minds  of  both 
people,  forced  upon  them  the  exercise  of  all  their  arts,  their  Mih- 
tk'ly,  their  skill  in  circumventing  their  opponents,  their  ,^r 
and  unsparing  ferocity  when  they  obtained  any  advantages.  It 
prompted  their  devotions,  also,  to  an  intensity,  which  rendered 
both  races  complete  subjects  of  the  most  terrible  superstitions. 
Their  priests  naturally  fed  these  superstitions,  until  war,  which 
is  the  usual  passion  of  the  red  man,  became  their  fanaticism. 
Wild,  mystical,  horrid,  were  their  midnight  orgies  and  sacrifices ; 
and,  when  they  were  not  in  battle — when  a  breathing  spell  fr«»m 
conflict  had  given  thorn  a  temporary  respite,  in  which  to  rebuild 
and  repair  their  burned  and  broken  lodges,  and  store  away  the 
provisions  which  trere  to  serve  them  in  new  trials  of  strength, — • 


MI:I.\V  IDLY   <>r  THI:  i;n>   M  \.v. 

then  religion  claimed  all  their  hearts,  au.l  fed  their  souls  upon 
the  one  frenzied  appetite  which  it  thus  m.ide  the  decree  of  prov 
idence.  Ti.e  red  man's  Moloch  has  always  been  supreme  among 
liis  gods,  and  lie  now  absorbed  wholly  the  devotions  equally  of 
Pawnee  and  Omaha.  And  thus,  from  generation  to  generation, 
had  the  fierce  niadn.  -s  been  transmilted.  Their  oldest  tradr 
fail.-  'Alien  the  hatred  did  not  exist  between  the  two  na 

tions;  and  the  boy  of  the  Pawnee,  and  him  of  the  Omaha,  for 
hundreds  of  moons  had  still  heen  taught  the  same  passion  at  the 
altar;  and  his  nightly  dream,  until  he  could  take  the  field  a>  a 
man,  \\  as  one  in  which  he  found  himself  bestriding  an  enemy, 
and  tearing  his  ivrking  scalp  from  his  f.nvlu-ad.  And  till- 
tlie  wav,  is  the  common  history  of  all  these  Indian  tribes.  They 
AVI-H-  thus  ju-rpetually  in  conilict  with  their  neighbors,  dc.stiiu'il 
to  slaughter  or  he  .slain.  What  wonder  the  sad  solemnity  on 
their  fae;->,  the  national  gloom  nvrr  their  villages,  their  pa>si.nis 
which  hide  darklv,  as  woh'es  in  the  mountain  caverns,  concealing, 
in  the  cold  aspect,  their  .silent  wretchedness;  their  horrid  r. 
under  the  stolid,  though  only  seeming,  indifference  in  every 
-.M!  \\. 'is  dealing  with  them  everyuhere, 

after  his  tiMial  fa.shioii.  They  were  themsidx cs  the  .sacrifii'es  upon 
hi*  Moody  altars,  and  he  nursed  their  fren/.ie-  only  for  >rlf-de- 
struc: 

(ilooiny.  item,  -age,  was  the  spirit  thus  prevailing 

over  the  minds  of  both  people,  at  the  time  of  which  we  speak. 
The  >eason  was  approaching,  when,  their  summer  crops  laid  by, 

v   again    to    take  the    field,  in  the  twofold    charact- 

warriors   and   hunters.     The   union  of  the  two,  in    the   ca.se    of 

!e    living   mostly    by   the    chase,    is   natural    and    apparent 

•gh.      The    forests    where    they    v.ught    their    prey    equally 

harbored   their  enemies,  and   fur  both  they  made  the  same  prep- 

The    peiiod   of  these  -  within   modern    t! 

The  coast.s  of    tlh  lantic    ha\c    been    pi.pulnu>ly  settled 

by  the  white  race.      The  re  1  men  have  gradually  yield- 
Jieir  jiioiieers.      The  i  Norman  is   pushing  hi>  \\  ay 

rapi.llv  into  the  iore.sts  int.i  the  pathle>s  bolitudes  —  int"  -sul 
len  mountain  |  nd  dense  and  glooinv  thickets.  Hy  has 
possessed  hiiiisc-lf  everywhere  of  some  foothold,  and  cunvuited 
every  foothold  into  a  fastness.  The  borderers  wero  alr«ach 


408  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

known  to  both  Pawnee  and  Omaha.  But,  while  these  raged 
against  each  other,  they  took  little  heed  of  that  approaching 
power  under  which  both  were  to  succumb.  Its  coming  inspired 
no  fear,  while  the  hate  for  each  other  remained  undiminished. 

The  autumn  campaign  was  about  to  open,  and  the  Pawnees 
and  the  Omahas  were  soon  busy  in  their  preparations  for  it. 
Before  setting  out  upon  the  war-path,  many  things  had  to  be 
done  —  mystic,  wild,  solemn  —  by  which  to  propitiate  their  gods, 
and  consecrate  their  sacrifices.  The  youth  of  each  nation,  who 
had  never  yet  taken  the  field,  were  each  conveyed  to  the 
"  Silent  Lodges,"  where,  for  a  certain  time,  under  trials  of  hun 
ger,  thirst,  and  exposure,  they  were  to  go  through  a  soil  of 
sacred  probation,  (luring  which  their  visions  were  to  become 
auguries,  and  to  shadow  forth  the  duties  and  the  events  of  their 
future  career.  This  probation  over,  they  took  their  part  in 
solemn  feast  and  council,  in  order  to  decide  upon  the  most 
plausible  plans  of  action,  and  to  obtain  the  sanction  and  direc 
tion  of  the  Great  Spirit,  as  ascertained  by  their  priests.  You 
already  possess  some  general  idea  of  the  horrid  and  unseemly 
rites  which  were  held  proper  to  these  occasions.  We  are  all, 
more  or  less  familiar  with  that  barbarous  mummery,  in  which, 
on  such  occasions,  most  savages  indulge ;  blindly,  and  to  us 
insanely,  but  having  their  own  motives,  and  the  greatest  con 
fidence  in  the  efficacy  of  their  rites.  These  proceedings  lasted 
days  and  nights,  and  nothing  was  omitted,  of  their  usual  per 
formances,  which  could  excite  the  enthusiasm  of  the  people, 
while  strengthening  their  faith  in  their  gods,  their  priesthood, 
and  their  destiny.  In  the  deepest  recesses  of  wood  the  incanta 
tions  were  carried  on.  Half  naked,  with  bodies  blackened  and 
painted,  the  priests  officiated  before  flaming  altars  of  wood  and 
brush.  On  these  they  piled  native  offerings.  The  fat  of  the 
bear  and  buffalo  sent  up  reeking  steams  to  the  nostrils  of  their 
savage  gods,  mingled  with  gentler  essences,  aromatic  scents, 
extracted  from  bruised  or  burning  shrubs  of  strong  odorous  prop 
erties.  The  atmosphere  became  impregnated  with  their  fume*, 
and  the  audience  —  the  worshippers,  rather — grew  intoxicated 
as  they  inhaled.  The  prie>ts  \\.-re  already  intoxicated,  drink 
ing  decoctions  of  acrid,  bitter,  fiery  roots  uf  the  forests,  the 
qualities  of  which  they  thoroughly  kne\v.  Filled  with  their 


Tin:   ATCUKY. 

exciting  fires,  they  danced,  they  sang,  they  ran,  ami  sent  up, 
meanwhile,  the  most  horrid  howls  to  their  demon.  Killed  with 
a  sacred  fury,  they  rushed  hither  and  thither,  smiting  them- 

'ngly  with  sliarji  Hints,  which  covered  their  hr« 
and    arms  with    hlood.      Thus  rnaildened,  tliey  divined,  and   the 
nation  hung  tre.mbling,  a>  with    a   single    heart,  upon   the   awful 

'ations  from  their  lips.     The  .-erne  is  one  for  the  most  vivid 

and  intense  of  the  melodramas.      Talk  of  your  Druid  sacrifices, 

;:•  opera-.      They  aiv  not.  for    the    picturesque  and 

terrilde,  to    1  e    -p^ken   of   in   the   same    hour  with   those   of   our 

aboriginal  tribes. 

In  the  case  of  hoth  nations,  as  might  be.  expected,  the  priests 
divined   and   pic  licted    general   success.      They  took  care,  how- 

.  as  is  usually  the  case  with  the  prophets  of  the  Mipei  stitious, 
ak  in  language  Mitliciently  vague  to  allow  of  its  application 
to  any  sort  of  8TfBtoj  or  they  rested  solely  upon  safe  predic 
tions  which  commonly  bring  about  their  own  verification.  They 
did  not,  however,  content  themselves  with  prophesying  the 
events  of  the  war.  They  consulted  as  well  the  course  of  the 
action  to  be  pursued  —  the  plans  to  be  adopted  —  the  leaders 

•n  ;  and  this,  too.  in  Mich  manner  as  to  leave,  no  loopholes 
for  evasion.  Thus  they  encouraged  their  favorites,  rebuked 
and  kept  down  leaders  whom  they  feared,  and  kept  the  nation 
subject  wholly  to  their  own  exclusive  despotism. 

The  ropon-e  ^specially  made  by  the  Pawnee  priesthood, 
when  consulting  their  gods  with  reference  to  the  approaching 
campaign,  announced  the  victorv  to  rest  with  that  nation  which 
should  fu>t  succeed  in  making  a  captive.  This  captive  was 
doomed  to  the  torture  bv  lire.  Such  a  response  as  this,  how- 
ouel  and  l.ai^ar'  us  it  may  seem,  was  yet  of  a  highly  m«-r- 
ciful  tendency.  (  aleulated  really  to  ameliorate  the  horrors  of 
war,  and  to  promote  the  >afrtv  of  human  life.  The  effect  upon 
the  I'awuees  —  a  people  eager  and  impetuous  —  was  to  rest  rain 
their  appetite  for  battle.  Their  great  policy  was  to  e>< 
unne  of  any  sort,  while  employing  all  their  sub 

tlety  f.-r   the    po-M'SMon  of  a  n;  1       this    the 

rior-  addre>^ed  t liem^-'K  rv  w-th  wonderful  unanimity,  but  to 
the  grievous  sacrifice  of  their  vhief  appetites,  all  of  which  indi 
cated  the  fiercer  conflict  as  their  true  delight. 


410  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 


CHAPTER    II  . 

THE  Omahas,  on  the  other  hand,  had  their  favorite  auguries 
also,  and  the  response  from  their  pods  was  not  dissimilar  to  that 
which  had  been  given  to  the  Pawnees.  It  said  that  the  nation 
should  infallibly  succeed  in  the  campaign,  icJiirh  should  receive 
the  fir  si  Mow.  But  nothing  was  said  of  captivity.  Similar,  but 
in  conflict,  were  the  predictions.  In  both  cases,  as  in  battles 
usually,  everything  was  made  to  depend  upon  the  first  blow. 
While,  therefore,  the  policy  of  the  Pawnees  was  to  escape  from 
everything  like  conflict,  that  of  the  Oinalias  was  to  provoke, 
action  and  hurry  into  danger.  Their  warriors  assembled,  ac 
cordingly,  at  all  points,  and  issued  from  their  lodges  and  towns, 
taking  the  trail  for  the  enemy's  country.  This  they  soon  pen 
etrated.  But  the  Pawnees  uere  very  wary.  They  stood  only 
on  the  defensive,  and  wholly  avoided  action  ;  retreated  before 
equal  numbers,  and  simply  contented  themselves  with  keeping 
out  of  danger,  while  keeping  the  Omahas  for  ever  vigilant. 
Their  caution,  which  was  a  very  unwonted  virtue,  provoked  the 
Omahas  to  desperation.  Their  effrontery  was  prodigious.  They 
exposed  themselves  to  the  shaft  on  all  occasions,  rushing  be 
neath  the  fastnesses  of  the  Pawnees,  striking  their  naked  breast  ?, 
and  defying  their  enemies  to  shoot.  But  the  latter  lay  prnlit. 
quietly,  if  not  calmly,  looking  on,  and  apparently  satisfied  to 
keep  their  towns  and  camps  in  safety.  They  neither  invited 
attack  nor  awaited  it,  and  resolutely  avoided  giving — what  the 
Omahas  solicited — that  first  blow  !  It  is  true  that  the  young 
Pawnee  braves  felt  sorely  the  necessity  to  which  they  were 
required  to  submit.  Bitterly,  in  their  hearts,  they  cursed  the 
decree  which  kept  them  inactive  ;  forced  to  submit  to  taunts, 
reproaches,  and  invectives,  from  a  people  whom  they  loathed, 
and  affected  to  despise.  It  vin<  scarcely  possible  to  restrain 
the  young  Pawnee  bloods  under  such  severe  trials  of  their 
temper;  —  but  the  voice  of  the  priesthood  was  paramount  ;  and, 
blindly  believing  that  safety  lay  only  in  their  predictions,  they 
were  persuaded  to  suspend  the  thirst  of  blood,  and  to  substitute 
subtlety  for  valor.  To  circumvent  the  enemy  —  to  make  the 
captive,  —  not  to  slay,  not  even  to  wound  :  this  was  the  great 
duty  and  the  eager  desire  with  tho  warriors  of  the  Pawnee. 


AWK-KIONK.  411 

But  this  v  \gy  matter.     Tin1   ( hnahas  longed  for  the 

fliet.     They   desired    t»    In1    smitten.     They  would    struggle    to 
IV«  the  stmke.      They  would    force  the  captors  to  .strike  the 
blmv,  which  was  to  defeat  the  one  prophecy  an-!  satisfy  tlie  con 
ditions  of  the  other.     They  were  not  to    he    onsnareil.     They 
exposed  themselves  but  seldom   singly,  and  they  were  al 
arined    for   hattle.      Turn  where  the    Pawnees  would — set  what 
snares  they  might  —  employ  what  arts,  —  still  they  found  them- 
t  and  lulled  by  their  now  strangely  insolent  and  assail 
ing  enemies. 

But  the.  Pawnee  warriors  had  some  long  heads  among  them, 
and  they  cogitated  earnestly,  and  planned  with  equal  delibera 
tion  and  method.  Among  the>e  was  a  fellow  of  great  renown, 
with  the  unenphonic  name  of  Kionk,  or  as  he  was  someti 
called.  Av  •  Kionk.  He  wt*  tfl  shrewd  and  sensible  as  lie  was 
biave  and  active,  and  was  full  of  energy  and  spirit,  being  just 
about  thirty  years  of  age.  HI-  w;i-  what  we  might  call  a  splen 
did  looking  savage  —  a  sort  of  Mark  Antony  among  the  red 
men  —  fond  of  good  living — a  rather  merry  companion  for  an  In 
dian,  but  in  battle  a  genuine  Birserker  —  becoming  drunk  and 
delirious  with  a  Hunnish  rapture  at  the  sight  or  taste  of  blood. 
Such  was  the  chief  Kionk.  He  had  his  devices,  and  after  a  se 
cret  conference  with  the  head  men  of  the  nation  he  suddenly 
disappeared  with  a  small  but  select  party  of  warriors,  to  put  them 
into  execution.  What  was  this  famous  project  about  which  so 
much  mystery  was  thrown?  So  secretly  did  Kionk  and  his 
followers  depart,  that  nobody  dreamed  of  their  absence,  even 

i  they  were  far  away;  and  so  wide  \\as  the  circuit  which 
they  took  that  they  pa»ed  unseen  and  unsuspected,  meeting 
not  one  of  the  cloud  of  spies  whom  the  Omaha-  had  >et  to  watch 
along  the  line  ing  them  from  their  em-n  :<  B,  The  t.l.jrrt 

ft'   Kionk  u;is    the    captive,  unhurt,    unwounded,  \\ ' 

ved  for  the  tiery  torture,  w<  ,  ,.-,  of 

and   secure   them   t1 

Within   the  whoh-  wMe   r.-ui.ires  of  a  country  which 
almost  perpetual   spring,  the  Omaha  vill.vjrr  occupied  one  of  the 
sweetest   and  most   beautiful  .situations    that    could  anywhere  be 
seen.     Their  principal  settlement  was  upon  a  small  island,  era- 
bosomed  in  a  broad  and   glassy   lake,  which  en»?>*:es   into  the 


41-  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

river  Platte.  The  Pawnees  had  long  lo.-ke  1  with  eager  and 
lustful  eyes  upon  this  lovely  abiding  place.  It  seemed  to  real 
ize  to  their  imaginations  the  dream  of  the  Indian  heavens.  It 
was  so  cool,  so  solitary,  and,  though  an  island,  so  shady  with 
noble  groves.  There  the  banks  seemed  to  wear  the  green  of  a 
perpetual  summer.  Never  were  there  such  flowers  as  bloomed 
for  them  by  the  wayside ;  and  the  singing  birds  loved  the  re 
gion,  and  dwelt  there,  cherished  choristers,  throughout  the  year. 
There  were  other  luxuries  in  that  little  island  home  of  the  Oma- 
has  which  were  even  more  precious  and  wooing  in  the  sight  of 
the  hungry  Pawnees.  The  fish  inhabiting  the  lake  were  in 
abundance,  and  of  surpassing  fatness  and  flavor.  No  wonder 
that  the  Loups  hated  a  people  in  the  exclusive  possession  of  such 
a  delicious  home  ! 

The  great  scheme  of  Kionk  was  to  effect  a  descent  upon  the 
island,  and  carry  off  one  at  least  of  the  inhabitants.  This,  it 
was  assumed,  it  was  quite  easy  to  do,  provided  the  utmost  cau 
tion  was  observed,  and  that  nothing  happened  to  render  the 
Ornahas  suspicious  of  their  object.  Kionk  reasoned  rightly, 
when  he  urged  upon  the  chiefs  that,  while  invading  their  ene 
my's  country,  the  Omahas  would  never  dream  of  any  foray  into 
their  own !  Their  chief  strength  was  well  known  to  be  in  the 
field,  hovering  all  about  the  Pawnee  settlements.  It  was  argued 
that  the  secluded  situation  of  the  village  —  its  remoteness  from 
the  scene  of  active  operations  —  and  its  natural  securities  would, 
in  all  probability,  render  the  Omahas  over-confident  of  its  safety  ; 
that  they  had  probably  left  few  men  upon  the  island,  and  those 
mostly  the  infirm  and  timid.  These  would  offer  but  a  weak  de 
fence  ;  but  as  assault  was  not  the  object,  only  surprise,  even  this 
was  not  apprehended.  Kionk,  as  we  have  seen,  succeeded  in 
persuading  the  chiefs  in  council,  and  departed  with  his  chosen 
band,  making  a  successful  circuit,  which  enabled  him  to  pass  the 
scouts  of  the  Omahas,  his  progress  entirely  unsuspected. 

JH  AFTER     III. 

MEANWHILE,  the  Omahas  labored  in  vain  to  provoke  their 
enemies  to  action.  Never  did  warriors  show  themselves  so  solici 
tous  of  being  beaten  —  struck  at  least  —  and  never  did  Christian 


THE   CHIKK    KNEMOYA. 

warriors    sh»«w  themselves   more    reluctant   to  bestow  the   much 
desired   chastisement.     This  sort  of  strategy  could  not   lust    for 
ever.     Our  Omahas   began   to  be  very  impatient,  and   t««  • 
the  ;  i  and  its  prophecies,  in  their  heart  of  hearts.      Jt  is 

true  that  they  were  not  kept  idle,  hut  constantly  watchful  and 
husv  ;  true,  also,  that  they  kept  their  hands  in  for  war,  by  prac 
tising  a  verv  slaughterous  campaign  against  bear.  bufValo,  and 
buck.  But  this  did  not  satisfy  the  national  appetite  for  the 
Mood  of  their  hated  rivals.  And  they  groaned  witli  impatience 
at  the  difficulty  of  complying  with  the  conditions  of  the  war. 
which  the  prophets  had  prescribed,  in  consequence  of  the  most 
unnatural  forhearanre  displayed  by  the  Pawrn 

Among  the  young  warriors  of  the  Omahas  who  sum-red   from 
this  impatience,  tin-re  was  one,  a  gallant  youth,  little  more  than 

ril  to  manhood,  who  had  already  made  himself  famous  by 
his  excellence  in  all  the  qualities  of  warrior  and  hunter.  A 
more  daring  or  accomplished  fellow  than  Knemoya.  the  nation 
did  not  possess.  Though  <|iiite  young  still,  he  had  been  tried 
in  frequent  battles,  and  had  acquired  such  a  reputation  for  equal 
spirit,  skill,  and  understanding,  that  he  took  a  foremost  rank 
among  his  people,  whether  in  action,  or  in  the  preliminary  de 
liberations  of  the  council.  But  Enemoya,  though  brave  and 

_'e  in  war,  had  yet   his  weaknesses,      lie  was  not    insensible 
to  the  tender  passion.      There  was  a  young  woman  of  his   tribe, 
known  by  the    pretty  poetical    name  of  Missouri;     ""'1   the    tir>t 
symptoms  which  Knemoya  had   that   this  young  woman  was  of 
any  importance  in  his  ryrs-.  consisted  in  his  sudden  di^roverv  of 
the  great  beauties  of  this  name. —  The  Indian  warrior,  like  Rich 
ard  »  I. eon,  and  the  knights  mo>t  famous  »i  IVoveih 
something  of  a  .Iinigleur. —  At  all  events,  every  chief  of  the  red 
men  sings  his  \\ar   lOBg,  his  battle    hymn,  his   song  of  rejoicing, 
and    his    death  chant.      Of  the    quality  of   these  songs,  as  works 
of  art,  we  ha1- •  yllable  t«>  say.      They  were  probably  not 
any  better    than  those  of  Co-ur   de  Leon  and    his    brother    J 
knights   of    Florence,       PerllApt,    metrical    harmony    cmisid. 
they  were  not  halt  In  making  songs  for  the  fair  Mis 
souri.  Knemoya    did    by  no  means    set    up  1-r  a  p. -el  ;    and    that 

- "iig  has  l-cen  pre>ervecl  at  all,  is  due  to  the  tact  that  it  has 
been  found  to  answer  the  purposes  of  other  lovers  among  the 


414  .SOUTHWARD    HO! 

red  knights  of  the  Omaha.  It  has  even  found  circulation  among 
the  Pawnees,  and,  by  the  last  advices  from  that  tribe,  it  is  said 
that  this  people  actually  claim  the  original  verses  for  one  of  their 
own  warriors  —  a  claim  which  we  need  scarcely  assure  you 
is  totally  unfounded.  Perhaps,  however,  it  matters  very  little 
with  whom  the  authorship  properly  lies.  It  is  certain  that 
Enemoya,  stealing  behind  the  lovely  Missouri,  while  she  plryed 
with  her  sister's  children  in  a  stately  grove  on  the  borders  of 
the  beautiful  lake,  chanted  the  following  ditty  in  her  ear.  We 
make  a  close  translation  from  the  original,  putting  it,  however, 
into  good  English  rhymes,  in  the  hope  that  it  may  be  adopted 
by  Russell,  or  some  other  popular  singer,  and  become  the  sub 
stitute  for  the  poor,  flat,  puny,  mean-spirited  love  songs,  which 
are  at  present  so  discreditable  to  the  manhood  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race.  We  are  constrained  to  add  that  Enemoya,  though 
he  had  a  good  voice,  and  could  scream  with  any  eagle,  w\s  yet 
rather  monotonous  in  singing  his  ditty. 

LOVE   SONG    OF    ENEMOYA, 

ONK  OK  THK  GREAT   WAR  CHIKKS  OF  TH«  OMAHA3. 
I. 

FAWN  of  the  forest  isle,  but  see 

The  gifts  that  I  have  brought  for  thee, 

To  please  thy  heart  and  win  thine  eyes, 
Here  ure  the  loveliest  beads,  as  bright 
As  flowers  by  duy,  and  stars  by  night, 

All  colored  with  the  prettiest  dyes!  — 
Oh1  take  them,  girl  of  Omaha  ! 

II. 

Tnke  them,  with  other  gifts  as  dear, 
Which  thou  wilt  make  more  lui-jht  to  wear: 

Thi*  robe  of  calico  but  view — 
From  pal«"laeed  trader  liou^lit,  who  swore 
The  world  ne'er  saw  the  like  iirt'nre, 

&>  softly  red,  so  preen,  so  blue — 
")h  !  take  it,  girl  of  Omaha  ! 

III. 

This  shawl  of  scorlet,  see — to  fold 
About  thy  neck,  when  day»  arc  cold— 


LU  >i    nil-:  OMAHA. 

{low  soft,  and  warm,  :nul  ni.-V  ! — 
A  (Io7.cn  boavei  skins,  three  bear, 
A  •core,  and  more,  of  fox  and  deer, 

It  rust  ; — ii  s\\inpiii£  juice  ! 
Yet,  take  it,  girl  of  Omaha ! 

IV. 

And  nrre  are  other  gifts — this  bowl, 
Of  tin — a  nn -t;il,  by  my  soul, 

Most  precious  nml  most  i 
These  little  hells,  hut  hear  them  ting — 
Ting,  tin»l'-,  ti.it;!'-.' — i'ir-1  on  \\ing 

HeYr  itung  so  sweet  inul  clear' 
l)h  !   take  i!u-m  girl  of  Omuhu ! 

V. 

Tuke  thorn,  and  me !      For  I'm  the  man 
To  make  you  blest,  if  mortal  cun  ' 

I'm  six  feet  high  and  strong 
As  bull  of  nil  the  bijfi'uloes; — 
I'm  good  for  any  thousand  foes, 

As  I  am  good  for  song. 

So,  take  me,  girl  of  Omaha! 

VI. 

Take  me  if  you  are  wise  ;  and  know 
My  lodge  is  rendy  ; — such  a  show 

Of  skins,  ami  meat,  is  there  ! 
I've  thirty  venison  hams  and  more, 
Kive  buffalo  humps  me  in  my  *: 

And  twice  as  many  bear  ! 

,uis,  sweet  girl  of  Omaha! 

VII. 

Take  me  .'—and  know  before  we  part, 
No  other  shall  post-tens  thy  heart; — 

I'll  take  his  >,-.•, lp  «h" 
N    _-.:..      —  '•<>", 

By  any  bi.t  -  son, 

\Nis--, 
And  take  me.  nil  ' 

This  will  be  called  rather  a  rough  style  of  wooing,  in  our 
eoftly  s.-ntiiiu-ntal  society,  but,  among  the  red  men.  the  chant 
of  Eiieinoya,  on  this  occasion,  was  deemed  the  rfec- 


110  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

tion  of  a  love  song.  It  dealt  frankly  with  the  maiden.  It 
told  her  all  that  she  ought  to  know,  and  warned  her  of  what  sho 
had  to  expect,  whether  she  took  him  or  not  The.  lover  never 
thought,  of  the  damsel's  fortune  ;  but  he  freely  tendered  every 
thing  that  he  himself  possessed.  It  was  herself  only  that  he 
wanted.  He  was  no  fortune-hunter.  He  was  a  msji,  and  he 
talked  to  her  like  a  man.  "  See  what  provision  I  have  made  for 
you.  Look  into  my  lodge.  See  the  piles  of  meat  in  yonder 
corner.  They  are  humps  of  the  buffalo.  These  alone  will  last 
us  two  all  the  winter.  But  look  up  at  the  thirty  venison 
hams,  and  the  quarters  of  the  bear  now  smoking,  hanging  from 
the  rafters.  There's  a  sight  to  give  a  young  woman  an  appe 
tite.  They  are  all  your  own,  my  beauty.  You  perceive  that 
there's  much  more  than  enough,  and  in  green  pea  season  we  can 
give  any  number  of  suppers.  Lift  yon  blanket.  That  is  our 
sleeping  apartment.  See  the  piles  of  bear  skins:  they  shall 
form  our  couch.  Look  at  the  tin  ware  —  that  most  precious  of 
all  the  metals  of  the  white  man — yet  I  have  appropriated  all 
these  to  culinary  purposes.  As  for  jewels  and  ornaments,  the 
beads,  of  which  I  have  given  you  a  sample,  are  here  in  abun 
dance.  These  are  all  your  treasures,  and  you  will  do  wisely  to 
accept.  Now,  my  beauty,  I  don't  want  to  coerce  your  tastes,  or 
to  bias  your  judgment  in  making  a  free  choice;  but  I  must  say 
that  you  shall  never  marry  anybody  but  myself.  I'm  the  very 
man  for  yon  ;  able  to  fight  your  battles  and  bring  you  plentiful 
supplies ;  and  feeling  that  I  am  the  only  proper  man  for  you,  I 
shall  scalp  the  first  rival  that  looks  .on  you  with  impertinent 
eyes  of  passion  ;  nay,  scalp  you  too,  if  you  are  so  absurd  as  to 
look  on  him  with  eyes  of  requital.  I'm  the  only  proper  person 
for  you,  I  tell  you." 

We  need  scarcely  say  that  this  performance  made  Enemoya 
as  famous  as  a  poet,  as  he,  had  been  as  a  warrior  and  hunter.  It 
is  now  universally  considered  the  chef  d'asuvrc  of  the  Omahas. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  it  proved  irresistible,  with  the.  fair  Mis 
souri.  It  had  an  unctuous  property  about  it,  which  commended 
the  lover  to  all  her  tastes.  She  suffered  him  to  put  his  arms 
about  her,  to  <_rive  her  the  kiss  of  betrothal,  which,  among  the 
Omaha  women,  is  called  the  "kiss  of  consolation,"  an  I  the  re 
sult  was,  an  arrangement  for  the  bridal,  with  the  close  01  the 


l.V  LMING,  -1  17 

•••nt  campaign,  and  the  ..{.ruin--  .,f  tin-  sprim: —  that  is,  taking 
for  granted  tliat  Enemoya  docs  not  happen,  by  any  chance,  tc 
leave  his  own  scalp  along  the  war-path.  But  neither  party 
thought  of  this  contingency,  or  they  made  very  light  of  it.  The 
courtship  occurred  that  very  autumn,  and  just  as  the  warriors 
were  preparing  for  the  winter  campaign.  It  was  during  the 
"windy  month"  (October),  and  they  were  to  wait  till  May. 
And  Knemoya  was  to  lie  absent  all  the  winter!  It  was  quite  a 
trial  even  for  a  Birserker  Omaha  ! 

rilAPTKK     IV. 

Hi-  new  relations  with  the  damsel  Missouri,  and  the  i:; 
bility  of  forcing  the  Pawnee  Loups  to  make  the  assault,  rendered 
Knemoya  very  impatient  of  the  war.  Day  by  day  he  became 
more  and  more  restless  —  more  and  more  dissatisfied  —  more  and 
more  troubled  by  the  ^nmgrst  lunging  to  steal  away,  and  take, 
if  only  a  look,  ;it  the  dusky  but  beautiful  damsel,  hv  the  lake 
side,  and  among  the  thickets.  He  had  picked  up  certain  spoils 
among  the  villages  of  the  Pawnees  —  for  the  <;>  P  the 

Omaha  prophets  did  not  denounce  the  spoiling  of  the  Egyptians  ; 
only  the  .slaying  of  them  —  and,  now  that  he  was  a  betrothed 
1".  »emoya  was  quite  as  avid  after  spoils  as  ever  feudal 
chieftain  in  the  palmy  days  of  chivalry.  And  why  should  he 
)  '  ''ia\\  otV  from  the  camp,  and  carry  home  his  treasures  and 
his  trophir<  *  What  was  then-  to  he  done  .'  The  Pawnees  would 
not  iight  --would  not  strike,  at  all  events  —  and  eluded  all  efforts 
ring  them  to  blows,  and  dodged  admirably  every  sort  of 
dai)->  '•  Ht  could  do  no  more  than  he  had  done,  and  the 
bnsilieat  Of  the  war  having  subsided  into  a  question  of  mere  \ 
lance  and  patience,  he  felt  that  this  coiild  l.c  carried  "ii  quite  AS 
well  by  ordinary  warriors  as  by  the  1  it  fit  for  hunting,  why 
should  he  fatigue  himself  in  this  '  Had  )M>  not  already 

shown  to  Missouri  the  rafters  ,.f  his   cabin    reeking  of  the   i 
MYOT  I      Thus   thinking,  lie    daily  grew    more   and    i 

convinced  of  the  propii  turning  home.      His  medita1 

in6uenced    his   dreams  and   these    fdled   him  with   tioul  b-.      An 
IndiaSi   is   a    great    dreamer,  and  has  ,ith  in  the  quality 

of  dreams.      The    prac1' 


418  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

his  priests  and  prophets.  The  orientals  were  never  such  famous 
interpreters  in  the  days  of  "  the  Elders."  Being  a  poet  also, 
Km'inoya  shared  in  the  dreaming  endowment  of  the  priesthood. 
r,b  sleep  was  wholly  occupied  with  dreams.  In  all  of  these, 
r-'i-souri  was  a  conspicuous  feature.  Now  lie  saw  her  in  flight; 
i'  w  in  tears,  and  trembling;  anon  he  beheld  her  fettered  ;  ,vi  1 
;..;rj;i  she  seemed  to  float  away  from  his  embrace,  a  bleeding 
s;octre,  melting  away  finally  into  thin  air.  Jn  most  of  these 
dreams,  he  beheld  always,  as  one  of  the  persons  of  the  drama,  a 
warrior  in  the  hateful  guise  of  a  Pawnee.  How  should  a  Pawnee 
dare  to  hover,  even  in  a  dream,  about  the  person  of  Missouri,  the 
betrothed  of  a  great  chief  of  the  Omahas  ?  What  had  he  to  do 
there  ?  and  why  did  the  spectre  of  one  unknown,  whom  indeed 
he  only  saw  dimly,  and  always  with  face  averted,  and  looking 
toward  Missouri  —  why  did  he  presume  to  thrust  himself  between 
his  visions  and  the  object  so  precious  and  ever  present  to  his 
dreams'?  The  heart  of  the  young  warrior  became  uneasy,  as  he 
could  conjecture  no  reasonable  solution  of  his  difficulty,  unless, 
indeed,  one  of  which  he  dared  not  think.  Was  Missouri  the 
captive  of  the  Pawnee  ?  He  recoiled  at  the  notion  —  he  laughed, 
but  rather  hollowly,  and  with  great  effort  —  and  became  more 
uneasy  than  ever.  His  waking  dreams,  shaped  by  those  that 
came  to  him  in  sleep,  became  still  more  troublesome,  a;id  he  re 
solved  to  depart  secretly  for  the  dear  islet  in  the  little  lake,  if 
only  to  disarm  his  doubts,  and  get  rid  of  his  vexatious  fancies. 
An  opportunity  soon  enabled  him  to  do  so.  A  large  party  of 
the  Omahas  had  resolved  upon  a  long  hunt,  and  they  applied  to 
Enemoya  to  join  them.  The  sport  in  no  way  promised  to  inter 
fere  with  the  quasi  warfare  which  was  carried  on;  and,  finding 
it  impossible  to  bring  the  Pawnees  to  the  striking  point,  the 
Omahas  contented  themselves  with  the  warfare  upon  the  (juad- 
rupeds  of  the  forest.  Enemoya  joined  the  hunt,  but  soon  dis 
appeared  from  the  party.  They  did  not  miss  him  till  nightfall, 
and  in  the  meantime  he  had  sped,  fast  and  far,  pushing  back 
ward  along  the  paths  leading  to  the  little  island,  and  the  dusky 
damsel  whom  he  loved. 

But  the  young  warrior  was  late,  though  no  laggard.  II is 
enemy  had  been  before  him.  That  subtle  and  enterprising  Kionk 
had  led  his  party  with  surprising  address,  and  had  succeeded  in 


THK    I'AWNKi:    SPY.  419 

fetchi  ig   such    a  compass   .-is   brought   him   entirely  without   the 
alizntnt-nt  of  spies  and  scouts,  which   the  Omahas  hail   stretched 

across  the  country,  ami,  without  impediment  Of  interruption,  had 

made  his  way  successfully  to  the  horders  of  the  little  lake  in 
which  the  blessed  island  seemed  to  he  brooding  upon  its  own 
bosom  in  a  dream  of  peace.  —  Nothing  could  look  more  calm, 
more  inoffensive,  more  winning.  One  would  think  that,  to  be 
hold  it  only,  would  disarm  the  hostile  passions  of  the  enem\ . 
There  lay  the  quiet  groves  beyond.  There  rose  the  soft  white 
curling  smokes  from  the  little  cabin;  and  see  beneath  the  t 
where  the,  young  dam-els  and  the  children  are  skipping  gayly 
about,  as  little  conscious  of  care  as  danger. 

The  prospect  did  not  disarm  the  Pawnee  chief.  On  the  con 
trary,  it  rather  strengthened  his  resolve,  and  stimulated  his 
<•nterpri.se.  "  If  u  e  obtain  this  captive."  he  thought  to  himself, 
"  we  conquer  these  rascally  Omahas  ;  and  then  we  take  pi>^e»M«n 
of  this  beautiful  island,  this  line  lake  always  full  of  the  s\\- 
fish,  and  these  broad  green  meadows,  where  I  can  keep  a  score 
of  horses  without  sending  them  out  to  grass."  And  the  eye  of 

.k  already  >» dected  a  particular  site  for  his  own  future 
tl'-ment,  and  by  no  means  stinted    himself  in  the  number  of  his 
self-allotted   acres.      Hut   he  did   not,  while   thus   thinking  of  his 
own    pnjects  of  plunder,  become   neglectful  of  the  duties  which 
he  had  undertaken.      He  looked  about  him,  the    better  to  prose- 
his  objects.      We  need  not    to  be  told    that  this  inquiry  was 
•    !  with  as  much  caution  as  energy.      Everybody  nndcr- 
!s    that    the    red    men    kept    themselves  \\ell  c"Vered    in  the 
woods,  so  that  none  of   the  innocent  children  and  the  thou^htle-s 
girls,  sporting  along  the  1  ank>  <i  the  i>h-t.  on  the  ..j.jio-itr  shore, 
couhl  get  the  .slightest  ^liinp-e  of  their  persons  or  their  pp.: 
The    marauders    Mole    up    the    stream,  for    the    lake  \\as-    simply 
formed    by  the    expansion    of  a  river,  which    the  islet  divided  in 
the    middle.      The    Pawnees    kept    under    cover  till    they  a', 
-ight  of  the  i.sb-t.      At  length  th.  <-d  upon  the  \ 

of  ti  •  Here  they  f..und  a  can«.e.  with  which  they  p: 

from    sb  :;£   it    to   the  current    to  take  them  down  to  the 

islet,  and  using  their  paddles  simply  to  shape  their  c-an-e,  so  ns 
to  touch  the  point  aimed  at  only  \\heie  its  shrubs  and  willows 
would  alVord  concealment.  The  wl..  le  aiVair  was  well  man; 


420  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

and  was  quite  successful.  The  Pawnee  warriors  found  them 
selves,  for  the  first  time,  on  the  blessed  island  of  the  Omahas 
The  reptile  was  in  the  garden.  He  crawled,  and  crept,  or 
sneaked,  crouching  or  gliding  from  cover  to  cover,  from  thicket 
to  thicket,  and  stealing  from  side  to  side,  wherever  he  thought 
it  most  probable  that  he  should  happen  upon  the  victim  he 
sought.  More  than  once  Kionk  might  have  caught  up  a  child, 
a  nice  little  girl  of  seven  or  eight,  or  a  stout  chunk  of  a  boy  of 
similar  age ;  but  he  had  his  doubts  if  such  juveniles  were  con 
templated  by  the  oracle.  He  must  do  his  work  thoroughly,  and 
having  gone  thus  far  in  his  enterprise,  peril  nothing  upon  a 
miserable  doubt. 


CHAPTER    V. 

LITTLE  did  the  beautiful  damsel  Missouri  fancy,  as  she  sat 
singing  that  evening  by  the  shore  of  the  quiet  lake,  while  the 
infant  child  of  her  sister,  Tanewahakila,  was  rocking  in  a  case 
of  wicker  work  from  the  boughs  of  an  outspreading  tree,  that 
danger  hung  about  her  footsteps.  She  sung,  in  the  gladness  of 
a  young  warm  heart,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  sang,  and 
musing,  in  delicious  reveries,  upon  the  spring  season,  which  it  is 
so  pleasant  to  think  of  when  one  is  lonely  in  cold  weather,  and 
which  was  to  bring  back  Enemoya  to  her  arms,  a  triumphant 
warrior.  Alas !  what  a  happy  dream  the  Fates  are  about  to 
mock  with  their  cruel  performances.  What  a  lovely  picture  of 
peace  and  felicity  is  about  to  be  blackened  with  the  thunderbolt 
and  storm  ! 

AVliile  Missouri  sang,  or  mused,  lost  in  her  sweet  reveries,  the 
hand  of  the  fierce  Pawnee  chief,  Kionk,  was  laid  upon  her  shoul 
der.  Before  she  could  turn  to  see  who  was  the  rude  assailant, 
his  shawl  had  been  wound  about  her  mouth,  shutting  in  her 
cries.  In  another  moment  she  was  lifted  in  his  powerful  arms 
and  borne  into  the  thickets.  The  infant  was  left  swinging  in  his 
basket  rocker  from  the  tree! 

The  lightfooted  Enoinoya,  meanwhile,  sped  with  all  the  im 
petuous  diligence  of  a  lover  toward  the  precious  little  islet,  so 
full  of  treasure  for  his  heart.  Pursuing  a  direct  course,  he  was 
not  long  in  consummating  his  journey,  anil  at  the  close  of  a  fine 


OF    KNKMOYA.  4-1 

day  in  November  we  find  him  once  more  on  the  borders  of  the 
little  lake,  ami  looking  across  to  the  happy  haven  which  ho 
sought.  He  pause. 1  t',,r  an  infant  only  to  take  from  the  bough 
from  which  it  depended  the.  clear  yellow  gourd,  Mich  as  was 

y where  placed  conveniently  for  the  wayfarer,  and  scooped 
up  a  sweet  draught  from  the  Howing  waters.  Then  he  sought 
out  A  little  canoe, —  one  of  many  which  lav  along  the  shore, — 
and  paddled  out  into  the  lake,  making  his  way  toward  the  well- 
remembered  headlands,  where  Missouri  was  wont  to  play  with 
the  children  of  her  sister,  Tanewahakila,  the  wife  of  his  cousin, 
the  grim  warrior  of  Ouanawega-poree.  It  somewhat  surprised 
Knemoya  that  he  seemed  to  be  unseen  by  the  villagers,  of  whom 
he  himself  beheld  none  ;  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  inquietude 
that  he  looked  vainly  to  the  headlands  he  was  approaching  for 
some  signs  of  Missouri  herself. — But,  when  he  reached  the  island, 
and  his  little  boat  shot  up  along  the  silvery  beach,  he  began  to 
tremble  with  a  strange  fear  at  the  deep  and  utter  silence  which 
prevailed  everywhere.  He  pushed  rapidly  for  the  lodge  of  Ta 
newahakila,  but  it  was  silent  and  untenanted.  The  fire  had  gone 
out  upon  the  hearth.  He  was  confounded,  and  hurried  off  to 
the  village.  Here  he  found  the  women  and  children  gathered 
within  the  picketed  enclosure,  and,  from  a  score  of  tongues,  he 
soon  learned  the  disaster.  Missouri  had  disappeared.  She  had 
been  seen  borne  upon  strong  Pawnee  shoulders  to  the  boat  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  island,  and,  before  the.  alarm  could  be  given, 

ii.nl  been  carried  safely  to  the  opposite  side  N,,t  knowing 
how  many  of  the  subtle  Pawn.  ,  about,  the  old  an.. 

.t  warriors  of  the  village   had  all  set  oil'  on  the  route  said  to 
be   taken    by  the   enemy.      As  yet,  there  was   n«»    report   nf  the 
n-Miir.      Hut  what  report,  or  what  result,  could  be  anticipated  — 
unless  that  of  disappointment  —  from  a  pursuit 
vigorous   foes,  undertaken    by   the    superannuated/      PoOT  ] 
moya  listened  with  the  saddest  feeling  of  hopdMIMM  and  deso 
lation.     "One  stupid  moment  motionless  he  stood  ;"  then,  having 
heard  all  which  the  Women  had  to  tell,  he  darted  nil'  in    pn: 
resolved  to  perish  «.r  re-cue   his  dusky  beauty  from  the  talons  of 
her  cruel  ravishers  ! 

While    Knemoya   was   thus,  witl     all    his   soul    and    strength, 
urging  the  pursuit,  Kionk,  with   hit  captive  and  his  companions, 


422  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

was  equally  earnest  in  pressing  his  retreat.  But,  to  make  this 
safe,  he  was  compelled  to  make  it  circuitous.  He  had  to  fetch 
a  wide  compass,  as  before,  to  escape  the  scouts  and  war  parties 
of  the  Omahas.  Though  indefatigable,  therefore,  in  the  prose 
cution  of  his  journey,  Kionk  made  little  direct  headway.  But 
he  was  in  no  hurry.  He  could  afford  to  lose  time  now  that  he 
had  his  captive.  It  was  only  required  that  he  should  keep  his 
trophy.  To  do  this  needed  every  precaution.  He  knew  that 
he  would  be  pursued  He  gave  sufficient  credit  to  his  enemies 
to  assume  that  they  would  not  give  slumber  to  their  eyelids,  nor 
rest  to  their  feet,  in  the  effort  to  rescue  his  prey,  and  to  revenge 
the  indignity  which  they  had  suffered.  He  also  took  for  grant  e<l 
that  they  would  bring  to  the  work  an  ingenuity  and  skill,  a 
sagacity  and  intelligence,  very  nearly  if  not  equal  to  his  own. 
He  must  be  heedful,  therefore,  to  obliterate  all  traces  of  his 
progress ;  to  wind  about  and  double  upon  his  own  tracks ;  to 
take  to  the  streams  and  water-courses  whenever  this  was  possi 
ble,  and  to  baffle  by  superior  arts  those  of  his  pursuers.  That 
there  would  be  much  energy  in  the  pursuit,  whatever  might 
be  its  sagacity,  he  did  not  apprehend  ;  for  he  knew  that  the 
guardians  of  the  village  were  mostly  superannuated,  and  a  cold 
scent  is  usually  fatal  to  enterprise.  He  knew  that  they  would 
fight,  perhaps  as  well  as  ever,  upon  their  own  ground,  and  in 
defence ;  but  for  a  war  of  invasion,  or  one  which  involved  the 
necessity  of  prompt  decision  and  rapid  action,  old  men  are 
nearly  useless.  He  was  therefore  cool,  taking  his  leisure,  but 
playing  fox-work  admirably,  and  omitting  no  precaution.  He 
contrived  to  throw  out  the  veterans  after  a  brief  interval,  and  to 
shake  himself  free  of  their  attentions.  But  he  did  not  dream 
of  that  fierce  wolf-dog  upon  the  scent — the  young,  strong,  and 
audaciously-brave  chief,  Enemoya. 

CHAPTER     VI. 

IT  was  not  long  before  Kionk  began  to  take  a  curious 
interest  in  the  looks  and  behavior  <>f  his  captive.  Very  sad 
and  wretched,  indeed,  was  our  dusky  damsel ;  but  she  was  very 
patient  withal,  and  bore  up  firmly  against  fatigue,  and  never 
once  complained,  and  seemed  to  show  herself  perfectly  insensi 


(  .\rioi;  AND  CAPTIVE. 

blc  to  danger.     She  had  been  cht»*en  as  the  \vife  of  a  great 
warrior,  and   she  \v  sho\v  that  she  possessed  a 

worthy  of  so  proud  a  de*tiny.      Kionk  beheld  her  patience  and 
endurance  with  a  grim  sort  ,cti«»n.     Such  a  woman,  he 

thought,  dc-crves  t<>  have  a  famous  hu*band :  she  will  do  honor 
in  the  fire  torture.  And  yet,  again,  he  inured  upon  the  grievous 
}>ity  of  hiirning  up  so  much  fine  flesh  and  blood  ;  such  a  fine 
figure,  Mich  a  pretty  lace  ;  a  creature  of  so  many  graces  and  heau- 
and  one  who  would  hear  such  noble-looking  men-children, 
gladdening  a  warlike  father's  heart.  Kionk  began  to  think 
how  much  better  it  would  be  if  he  could  pick  up  another  cap 
tive,  and  save  Missouri  from  the  fire-torture.  She  would  make 
biich  ft  commendable  \\ife.  But  Kionk  had  a  wife  already;  for 
that  matter,  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  had  three,  and  did  not 
enjoy  any  great  reputation  as  an  indulgent  husband.  But  great 
chiefs  li;.ve  peculiar  privileges,  and  a  chief  like  Kionk  might 
as  safely  repudiate  his  wives  as  any  of  the  Napoleons,  or  any 
of  the  Guelphs  of  Km  ope.  Positively,  the  thought  began  to 
grow  upo.i  the  mighty  Kionk,  of  the  beauties  and  virtues  and 
excellent  domestic  nature  of  Missouri.  More  than  once  he 
caught  himself  muttering:  "What  a  pity  such  a  fine  ii_ 
should  be  scorched  and  blackened  by  the  fire  !"  He  watched 
her  pitifully  as  he  mused.  When  they  paused  for  food  and 
.  he  attended  kindlily  to  her  wants.  He  brought  her  the  food 
himsell  ;  he  chose  the  ground  where  she  slept,  and  threw  his 
buflfalo  robe  over  her,  and  watched  at  her  head  during  the  brief 
hours  at  midnight  which  I  "rded  to  re.st.  When,  long 

before  dawn,  the  party  was  again  in  motion,  he  himself  gave  her 
the  signal  to  rise,  ,IT).l  helped  her  up.  He  was  curiously  attentive, 
for  s  >  rough  a  Ml  pf  Bir*erkir.  Could  Knemoya  have  witne 
these  attentions!  Could  he  have  seen  what  thought* 
passing  through  the  brain  of  Kionk  —  what  feelings  were  work 
ing  in  hi*  heart!  But  his  jealous  and  apprehensive  spirit  con 
jectured  all.  What  li.\erbut  apprehended  the  worst  of  dangers 
from  a  charming  rival  ? 

While  such  were  the  relations  between  the  captor  and  the 
captive,  Knemoya  puiMied  the  *earch  \vith  as  much  rapidity  as 
consisted  with  the  necessity  of  keeping  on  the  track  of  the 
fugitives.  He  encountered  the  party  of  exhausted  veterans  at 


4124  SOUTH  WARD    HO  '. 

the  spot  where  they  were  thrown  out  of  the  chase ;  and,  while 
they  returned  sorrowfully  to  the  little  islet,  no  longer  safe  and 
happy,  he  contrived  to  catch  up  the  traces  which  they  had 
lost,  and  once  more  resumed  the  pursuit  with  now  hopes  and 
spirit.  Under  any  circumstances,  the  free  step,  the  hold  heart, 
the  keen  eye,  and  prompt  sagacity,  of  Enemoya  would  have 
made  him  fearful  as  a  pursuer  ;  but  now,  with  jealous  fire  and 
a  fierce  anger  working  terribly  in  his  soul,  all  his  powers  of 
mind  and  body  seemed  to  acquire  greater  vigor  than  ever. 
Passion  and  despair  gave  him  wings,  and  he  seemed  to  carry 
eyes  in  his  wings.  Nothing  escaped  his  glance.  He  soon  per 
suaded  himself  that  he  gained  upon  his  enemy.  There  are 
traces  which  the  keen  vision  of  the  hunter  will  detect,  even 
though  another  hunter  shall  toil  to  baffle  him  ;  and,  in  spite  of 
the  care  and  precautions  of  Kionk,  he  could  not  wholly  succeed 
in  obscuring  the  tracks  which  his  party  unavoidably  made. 
Besides,  anticipating  pursuit,  though  certainly  not  that  of  her 
lover,  Missouri  had  quietly  done  all  that  she  might,  in  leaving 
clues  of  her  progress  behind  her.  She  was  not  allowed  to 
break  the  shrubs  as  she  passed,  nor  to  peal  the  green  wands, 
nor  to  linger  by  the  way.  Where  she  slept  at  night  the  care 
ful  hands  of  her  captors  stirred  the  leaves,  and  smoothed  out  all 
pressure  from  the  surface.  But  the  captors  were  not  always 
watchful,  and  Missouri  noted  their  lapses  very  needfully.  As 
Enemoya  hurries  forward  over  a  little  sandy  ridge,  what  is  it 
that  sparkles  in  the  path  1  It  is  one  of  the  bright  blue  heads 
which  lie  himself  has  wound  about  the  neck  of  the  dusky  maiden. 
His  hopes  rekindle  and  multiply  in  his  breast.  Anon  he  sees 
another,  and  another,  dropped  always  on  the  clear  track,  and 
where  it  may  imprison  the  glistening  rays  of  the  sun.  Now  he 
hurries  forward,  exulting  in  the  certainty  of  his  clues.  Toward 
sunset  he  happens  upon  the  clearly-defined  track  of  a  man's 
moccasin.  The  foot  is  large  and  distinct.  There  are  other  like 
tracks,  set  down  without  any  reserve  or  seeming  apprehension. 
Enemoya  at  once  concludes  that  the  Pawnee  party,  deeming 
themselves  secure,  no  longer  continue  their  precautions.  This 
encourages  him  still  further.  He  will  now  catch  them  napping. 
Again  he  darts  forward,  following  tin*  obvious  tracks  hefure 
him.  But  night  came  down,  and  he  omld  «nly  travel  under  the 


THK    CAM!'    OF    THK    PA1.K-FACE8.  l--~> 

guidance  of  a  star,  eho>cn,  as   pointing  in   the   seemingly  given 
direction.     Thus,  for  an   hour  or  more  after  night,  he  followed 
on    through    the    dim    forest.      Suddenly,  a*   lie    rounds  a  \\  • 
course,  which    lie  can  not  wade,  lie  i*  .startled    by  the  blaze,  of  a 
camp-tire. 

"  Such  a  fire,"  quoth  Enemoya  to  himself,  "  was  never  made 
hy  Pawnee  warrior.  He  would  never  he  the  fool  so  to  advertise 
hi*  sleeping  place  to  his  enemies." 

The  prospect  which  would  have  cheered  the  white  man,  disap 
pointed  our  chief  of  Omaha,  lie  now  knew  that  lie  had  1 
milled,  and  had  turned  aside  from  the  true  path  indicated  hv  the 
beads  of  Missouri,  t«>  follow  upon  one  which  had  heen  evidently 
made  by  quite  another  party.  Hut,  though  mortified  with  him- 
at  this  bltmdermg,  and  in  allowing  himself  to  reason  from  a 
false  assumption  —  his  pride  as  hunter  and  warrior  being  equally 
wounded  —  he  cautiously  approached  the  tire,  around  which  the 
outlines  of  a  group  of  persons,  dimly  seen  hy  the  hlaze,  were 
crouching.  They  proved  to  he  a  party  of  white  men,  and  were 
busily  engaged  in  the  discns.sioii  of  a  supper  of  broiled  venison 
and  smoking  hoecake.  The  intercourse  of  Kncmova  with  the 
white  trailers,  had,  as  we  have  already  seen,  been  rather  con 
siderable,  and  the  larger  profits  had  not  certainly  lain  with  the 
red  man.  The  chief  had  learned  suine  little  of  the  Kn-li>h 
tongue  in  this  intereoiir-e,  h<>\\rver.  and  he  suddenlv  ti 
ammig  the  .-trailers,  introducing  himself  with  a  softly  mur 
mured:  "  Huddye  do,  hrudder  ;  1  berry  dad  to  see  you  in 
Couir 

(  Mir  pi.-neers  were    fellows  of  "the  true  -ri(."  to  employ  then 
own  verbal  currency,  —  as  big-limbed,  muscular,  hardy,  and  dare 
devil  scamps,   as  61  from  "  Roaring  ri\-  r.  '       I ':  0] 
taken  by  snrpri-e,  but  were  on  their  h-^s  in   the  twinkling  of nn 
each  brandishing  his  rifle,  rlub-fa>hi«>n,  and    feeling  tint  his 
knife  was  convenient  to  his  grasp.      Thev  were  on  the 
looking  for  a   new  route;    had   drawn  up  stake-,  i 
settled  neighborhood,  having  three  neighbors  in  asqua: 
and                                                 •    plant    them  '.\.led 
region.      The  gen?!*                                                       --ured  them. 

light  —  .  :ds  —  bruddeix  all.      The  (  hnah a 

in  a  friend  to  the  p 


420  SOUTH W AIM)    HO! 

And  he  extended  his  hand  which  they  promptly  shook,  all 
round,  and  then  frankly  bade  him  sit  and  share  of  their  provis- 
i"iis.  Enemoya  $  heart  was  not  in  the  feast,  nor  yet  with  his 
new  companions  He  would  iniu-li  ratlin-  never  have  encounter 
ed  them,  but  still  kept  on  the  track  of  the  true  enemy,  as  pointed 
out  by  the  occasionally  dropped  head  of  the  poor  Missouri.  Many 
were  the  secret  imprecations  which  he  muttered  against  the  big 
feet  of  the  pale-faces,  which  had  diverted  him  from  the  true 
course.  Weary,  almost  to  exhaustion,  he  was  for  the  moment 
utterly  desponding.  The  last  feather  breaks  the  camel's  back. 
Now  Enemoya's  spine  was  still,  in  sooth,  unshaken,  but  the  con 
viction  that  he  had  lost  ground  which  he  might  never  be  able  to 
recover,  made  him  succumb,  as  the  hardiest  man  is  apt  to  do, 
for  a  time,  under  the  constantly  accumulated  pressure  of  mis 
fortunes.  He  did  as  the  Kentuckians  bade  him,  and  sat  down 
with  them  to  the  supper,  but  not  to  eat.  The  white  men  noted 
his  despondency,  and,  little  by  little,  they  wound  out  of  the  war 
rior  tiie  whole  history  of  his  afl'airs —  the  present  war  between 
Pawnee  and  Omaha  —  the  predictions  upon  which  the  result  was 
to  depend  —  the  secret  foray  of  the  Pawnees,  and  their  capture 
of  the  dusky  beauty  whom  he  was  to  carry  to  his  lodge  in  the 
spring.  He  narrated  also  the  details  of  his  pursuit  thus  far,  and 
confessed  in  what  manner  he  had  been  misled,  never  dreaming 
of  the,  moccasin  track  of  a  white  man  in  the  country  of  the  red, 
at  such  a  moment. 

"  Well,  now,  yours  is  a  mighty  hard  Ciise  for  a  young  fellow; 
I  must  say  it  though  I'm  rather  an  old  one  myself,"  was  the 
remark  of  one  of  the  elders  of  the  white  party  —  a  grisly  giant, 
some  forty-five  years  of  age,  vet  probably  with  a  more  certain 
vii:<>r  than  be  bad  at  thirty-iive.  "It's  not  so  bad  to  lose  one's 
wife,  afier  he's  got  a  little  usen  to  her;  but  win-re  it's  only  at 
the  beginning  of  a  man's  married  life,  and  where  it's  nothing  but 
the. happiness  of  the  thing  that  he's  c-nisiderin',  to  have  the  gal 
caught  up,  ami  carried  away  by  ;;n  iuimy,  makes  a  sore  place  in 
a  person's  feelings.  It's  like  hav!:  upper  snapped  UP 

by  a  hungry  wolf,  jot  before  lie's  tasted  the  let  ilest  morsel,  and 
when  lie's  a-wiping  his  mouth  to  eat.  I  confess,  1  feels  uneasy 
at  your  perdicament.  Now,  what  do  you  sav  ef  we.  lends  you  a 
band  to  help  yon  git  back  the  «ral." 


•  •    I"  \  IJ  Mw' ' 


FARMS"  \\-nn  THE  xjr,\rm:-.  127 

Enemoya  WAS  cheered  by  the  prospect,  and  expressed  his 
gratitude. 

"  Well,  that's  pretty  well  said  for  a  rod-skin.  We  are,  the 
boys  to  help  you,  my  lad,  for  there  ain't  one  of  us  that  can't 
double  up  an  Ingin  in  mighty  short  order.  With  these  pretty 
little  critters  here,"  touching  one  ..f  the  ritles,  "  we  can  see  to  a 
mighty  great  distance,  and  can  stretch  the  longest  leg<  YOU  ever 
did  see  after  an  iniiny.  And  we're  good  at  scouting,  and  can 
take  a  track,  and  sarcumvent  the  heathen  jist  as  well  as  we  can 
Kircumvent  the  b'ar  and  huffalo. —  Ami  we  «•/'//  sarve  you,  ef 
we  can  make  tarms  upon  it." 

ilnemoya  was  willing  to  admit  the  prowess  of  the  white  men  ; 
but  he  didn't  altogether  comprehend  the  latter  part  of  what  was 
tsaid  about  the  k  tarm>." 

44  Oh  !  don't  make  out  that  you're  m  gn-en  as  all  that  comes 
to.  You've  been  trading  witli  our  people,  and  ought  to  know 
what  we  mean  by  '  tnrms.'  But,  ef  you  don't,  it's  only  to  make 
it  d'ar  to  you  by  using  some  easier  words.  Tarms  is  conditions 
—  that  i-,  the  pay,  the  hire,  the  salary  —  what  you're  to  give  in 
for  helping  to  git  the  gal  hack,  sound  in  wind  and  limb,  and 
other  sarc'.im-tancfs.  X<»  cine,  no  pay —  no  gal,  no  tarm>." 

Kneni'.ya  was  not  long  in  comprehending  the  suggestion.  Ho 
felt  the  importance  of  snch  an  alliance,  and  well  knew  that  the. 
proffered  assistance  was  highly  valuable.  It  filled  him  with 
new  hope  and  murage.  Hr  was  accordingly  as  liberal  as  the 
ine  iu  his  gratitude  and  promises,  lie  had  deer,  and  bear, 
and  buffalo  skins,  which  were  all  at  the  service  of  his  alli« 
they  were  successful  in  the  chase. 

'•  Ay,  a;.,  all  them's  mighty  good  things;  but  the  gal's  worth 
a  great  deal  more.  \'",\ .  y..ii  jist  now  spoke  of  this  bring  vour 
C"unti\.  Ill'  we  chosr,  'txM-uld  hr  mightv  ea-\-  to  di-pute  that 
incut  ;  for  \\  hat  mai'.e  it  ni-u-e  your  country  than  mine  >  It's 
all  (lod'.s  country,  and  (iod  grants  no  j»r'emptions  to  auv  but  a 
Chri-  jde.  The  1. e.-,:h .-n's  |0<  tt  die  out,  any  how.  some 

day.      Hut    I  rute  with    a  man  \\hen  lu-'s  in    a  pad 

troul  '  '-'11    lea\e    that    argyment    t.\-er    f..r   am-ther   time. 

\V,-'ll  take  the  >kin>.  but  you'll  throw  in  some  rifle- -hot-  of  land 
\\ith  'em.  won't  you,  <•:  back  your  gal  .'" 

Be    fu.:h.  .:,  I    tinallv 


428  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

agreed  that  our  pioneers,  if  successful  in  recovering  Missouri, 
should  have  as  much  territory  of  Omaha,  wherever  they  were 
pleased  to  locate,  as  they  could  shoot  round  in  a  day.  He  did 
not  calculate  the  number  of  acres  that  could  be  thus  covered  by 
a  score  of  long  Kentucky  rifles.  The  bargain  was  concluded. 
And  here  we  may  observe  that  such  leagues  were  quite  frequent 
from  the  earliest  periods  of  our  history,  between  the  red  men 
and  the  white  pioneers.  The  latter  most  commonly  took  sides 
with  the  tribe  with  which  they  hunted,  harbored,  or  trafficked. 
The  trappers  and  traders  were  always  ready  to  lead  in  the  wars 
between  the  tribes,  and  their  presence  usually  determined  the 
contest.  They  were  in  fact  so  many  bold,  hardy,  fighting  men, 
and  Avere  always  active  in  the  old  French  war,  in  subsidizing 
the  Indians  for  their  respective  nations,  against  French  or  En 
glish,  as  it  happened.  Let  them  fight  as  they  pleased,  however, 
the  red  men  were  losers  in  the  end.  The  rifle  shots  invariably 
resulted  in  the  absorption  of  their  acres.  But  the  bargain  was 
concluded,  and  the  supper.  The  squatters  leaped  to  their  feet, 
girded  themselves  up  for  travel,  reprimed  their  rifles,  and  set 
off,  under  the  guidance  of  Enemoya — now  refreshed  by  rest, 
and  a  new  stimulus  to  hope — to  recover  the  trail  of  the  fugitive 
Pawnees,  which  he  had  lost. 

CHAPTER    VII. 

WHILE  Enemoya  was  thus  strengthening  himself  for  the  pur 
suit,  passions  of  a  strange  and  exciting  character  were  slowly 
kindling  in  the  camp  of  the  Pawnees.  The  growing  sympathy 
which  Kionk  showed  for  the  beautiful  captive,  became  intelligi 
ble  to  his  comrades  a  little  sooner  than  to  himself.  They  had 
no  such  feelings,  and  they  were  a  little  resentful  of  his,  accord 
ingly.  Besides,  one  of  his  companions  was  a  brother  to  one  of 
his  many  wives,  and  was  particularly  watchful  of  those  peculiar 
weaknesses  of  his  kinsman,  which  were  sufficiently  notorious 
among  his  people.  Like  Mark  Antony,  to  whom  we  have 
already  compared  him,  Kionk  had  too  tender  a  heart  —  he  was 
11  admirer  of  the  sex,  and  would  cheerfully  lose  the  world 
Riiy  day  for  any  dusky  Cleopatra.  He  snfVered  his  companions 
I  tlie  roirivvi.  which  Missouri  had  made  ill  his  affections. 


TROI'RLK    IN    (AMP. 

by  gravely  proposing  to  them,  as  they  rested  in  camp,  the  ver\ 
hour  that  Enoinoya  was  making  liis  bargain  with  tlio  white  men, 
to  "  seek  for  another  captive."  II,  was  not  (jnito  sure  that  a 
woman  sacrifice  was  contemplated  by  the  gods,  or  would  be  ac 
ceptable  to  them.  He  very  much  doubted  it  himself.  Indeed, 
how  should  it  be  so.  It  was  the  war- god  to  whom  the  victim 
was  to  be  offered,  and  what  should  the  victim  be  but  a  warrior. 
They  had  seen  the  defenceless  condition  of  the  islet.  It  would 
surely  he  easy  to  cast  the  snare  about  the  feet  of  some  one  of 
the  veterans,  and  carry  him  on",  as  they  had  carried  oil'  Mi»-iuri." 
rother-in-law  answered  with  a  sneer: — 

"  Is   my  brother   prepared,  when  he   hath    taken  the  old  war 
rior,  to  leave  the  damsel  behind  him  .?" 

was  a  pii/xier,  by  which  Kionk  began  to  see  that  he  was 
su-pected.     But  he  was  a  bold  fellow,  who  did  not  care  much  to 
oiler  apologies  or  excuses.      He  an-v/ered  with  equal  prompt: 
and  determination  : — 

"No.  indeed;    the   captive   woman   is  comely,   and   \\ould   be 
the  mother  of  many  braves  to  a  chief  among  the  Pawi.< 

"As    if  the    Pawnees  bad    no  women  of  their  own."  wa>    the 
:    and  his  sentiment-  \\ere  dearly  th.»e  of  the 
larger  number  of  his  companions. —  Kionk,  bold    a>  be  VTA8, 
not  prepared  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns  at  that  moment.      He 
saw  that  public  opinion  •    t  him.  and  he  must  wait  6V( 

And  this  forbearance  became  much  more  essential,  when  hi- 
brother-in-law  deliberately  ur^ed  upon  the  party  "to  sir 
•  uri  to  the  lire  torture  where    they  then  were,  and  thus  ren 
der  the  matter  certain.      They  would    tin: 
an  'UK  umbranee  ;    would    be  better   able    to  turn  upon  their    • 

uld    then  strike  and    scalp  with    impunitv,  an-'.    re\. •»::'• 
themsel\e>  teai  fully  lor  all    the  taunts  of  their   impudent    a<-ail- 

.  made    safe    by  the    oracle,  to  \\  hich    thev    had    found    il 
painful  to  submit.      The  requisitions  of  the  oracle  onc€  ("mjdied 
with,  they  would    be  free    to  u-e   tbeir  scalping-knives   on  e 
side." 

It  required  all  the  logic  and  eloquence  ..f  Kionk  to  silence 
this  terrible  suggestion,  ono  which  better  taught  him  to  under 
stand  the  extent  of  his  newly  awakened  passion  for  his  beauti 
ful  and  dnnprrous  rnptive.  His  nrerument  proved  conch 


430  SOUTHWARD    HC  ! 

with  all  but  his  savage  biother-in-law.  He  urged  that  the  sac 
rifice  could  only  take  place  under  the  immediate  sanction  and 
sight  of  the  high-priest.  But  before  the  decision  of  his  com 
panions  could  be  made,  the  party  had  nearly  come  to  blows.  In 
the  midst  of  the  discussion  between  Kionk  and  his  kinsman,  and 
when  both  were  nearly  roused  to  madness,  the  latter  sprang 
suddenly  upon  Missouri  —  who  had  tremblingly  listened  to  the 
whole  dispute  —  seized  her  by  her  long  black  hair,  whirled  her 
furiously  around,  and  actually  lifted  his  knife  to  strike,  before  any" 
of  them  could  interpose.  Then  it  was  that  the  whole  lion  nature 
of  Kionk  was  in  arms,  and  tearing  her  away  fpun  the  brutal  as 
sailant,  lie  hurled  him  to  the  earth,  and,  but  for  his  companions, 
would  have  brained  him  with  his  hatchet  on  the  spot.  But  he 
warned  him  with  terrible  eye,  as  ho  sullered  him  to  rise,  that  if 
lie  but  laid  his  finger  on  the  damsel  again,  lie  would  hew  him  to 
pieces.  The  kinsman  rose,  silent,  sullen,  unsubdued,  and  secretly 
swearing  in  his  soul  to  have  his  revenge  vet.  These  events  de 
lay  el  the  party.  It  was  long  that  night  before  they  slept.  It 
was  late  —  after  daylight,  next  day  —  before  the  journey  was 
resumed.  This  gave  new  opportunities  to  the  pursuers. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  retrace  the  steps  of  the  white  men, 
which  Enemoya  had  so  unwisely  followed,  until  he  reached  the 
point  where  he  had  turned  aside  from  the  true  object  of  pursuit. 
To  this  the  squatters  themselves,  who  were  as  good  at  scouting, 
any  day,  as  the  red  men,  very  easily  conducted.  This  brought 
them  to  a  late  hour  in  the  night,  and  here  our  whites  proceeded 
to  make  their  camp,  though,  this  time,  without  venturing  to 
make  a  fire.  The  Omaha  chief  would  have  hurried  on,  but  his 
companions  very  coolly  and  doggedly  refused.  He  soon  saw 
the  wisdom  of  curbing  his  impatience,  not  only  because  of  the. 
inflexibility  of  his  allies,  but  because,  as  they  showed  him,  his 
impatience  would  only  cause  him  again  to  lose  the  trail,  which  it 
was  not  possible  to  pursue  by  night.  With  the  dawn,  however, 
the  whites  were  on  the  alert,  and  one  of  them  soon  appeared 
with  a  bead  in  his  hand,  the  certain  indication  of  the  daim 
route  and  providence.  Knenmya  readily  conjectured  the  gen- 
oral  direction  which  would  be  taken  by  the  Pawnees,  and  an 
-ional  bead,  glistening  upon  the  sandy  spots,  sufficed  every 
now  and  then  to  oncourncre  the  pursuers.  At  this  period,  the 


\V.»M  431 

r  knowledge  of  tlir  country  pOMCMed  by  Knemoya,  ena 
bled  him,  by  striking  an  oblique  course  for  the  head  of  a  creek, 
which  tin-  Pawnees  would  he  compelled  to  CTOtt,  to  -rain  con 
siderably  upon  thiMii.  ignorant  as  they  were  of  this  shorter 
v,,iit«-.  T'  -MUM  was  fortunate ;  and,  never  once  dreaming 

ofth<  whirl,  had  delayed  the  •'  the  la<t  ni-ht.the 

(  Jmaha  chief  with  his  allies  came  unexpectedly  upon  them  ahont 
midday,  where,  squat  beside  a  brooklet,  they  were  taking  a 
brief  rest  and  a  little  ivfrexhment.  This  pause  had  become  68- 
peeially  neeemary  for  Mi—ouri,  who.  with  incessant  travel,  and 
the  terror  of  the  scene  «>f  the  previous  niirht,  had  succumbed, 
and  actually  fainted  that  nioniinir  ah-n^  the  route.  Kionk  was 
compelled  to  carry  her,  at  various  stage*,  in  his  arms  — which 
be  did  with  the  irreate-t  tenderness  — till  the  moment  when  the. 
party  >t"pped  for  nooning  beside  the  little  brooklet,  where  Eu- 
cmoya  and  his  white  allies  came  upon  them. 

The  I'awnees  \\ere  overtaken,  but  not  taken  by  surprise. 
They  did  not  certainly  expert  to  be  overtaken,  but  they  had 
ted  in  none  of  their  vigilance,  and  their  scout  reported  the 
enemy  before  the  latter  had  discovered  the  quarry.  The  Paw- 
• -in":  upon  the  ground,  scattered  around  a  small  cir 
cuit,  Missouri  in  the  centre  of  the  -n.up,  n-tin-  against  a  tre,-. 
Her  lon^-  hair  was  dishevtdled,  and  lay  heavily  upon  the  leaves; 
her  foeC  «ai  sad  and  anxious,  weary  and  without  hope;  —  M 
A\oful  wa^  the  si-ht  that  the  impulx-s  of  Knemoya.  as  he  beheld 
her,  ur'  t  for  a  moment  the  better  of  his  prudence,  and  he  ptM 
out  of  t1  '.  ^houtin^  bis  war  cry,  an  I  1  ••undin_ 

with    uplifted  tomahawk.      It  was  with    no   scrupul  entle 

band  that  the  cider  of  the  white  men  caught  him  in   his  sinewy 

]>.  and  drew  him  back  into  the  thick* 

With    the    visual  whittle  of  their    scout,  the    Pawnee  warriors 
Vrfefo  upon  their  Ir^'s.  each  covering  himself  with  a  t 

and  a  doxen  arr«.ws  \vere  rapidly  shot  into  th.-  ITOO  !  nliere  our 
squatters  bad  taken  harbor.  But  they  \\t-re  as  quick  and  M 
pr.-..  ;;,,.,!  in  p  Ofl  lcr«fl  '  l\te  1'  '  ad  1  .n^hed  at  (bis 

demonstration.      In    numbers    t!..  •'••   small  pair; 

their  enemie-.  and    could    b  whelmed    them  probably  by 

i .Men    nish    from    .«pp.»site    quarter-:    hut    they  were  warned 
:Mst    v|,cb    and.;  ''t\     !•       '  •  ';•  1  :'ii       ll  •       :  -i-kv 


4 ML!  i  ii\VAi;i)  no! 

maiden,  who  was  seized  l>y  the  hair  by  one  of  the  captors  as  soon 
as  Enemoya  had  shown  himself,  while  a  knife  lifted  over  her  bo 
som  threatened  her  with  instant  death  at  the  first  demonstration 
of  attack.  Never  had  Enemoya  before  found  himself  in  a  situ 
ation  in  which  he  was  so  little  capable  of  resolving  what  should 
be  done.  But  the  squatters  who  accompanied  him  were  persons 
of  as  much  shrewdness  and  experience  as  daring.  While  they 
felt  that  confidence  and  boldness  were  prime  qualities  of  the 
warrior,  they  also  well  knew  that  rashness  and  precipitance 
would  be  fatal  to  their  object.  They  held  counsel  among  them 
selves,  never  consulting  the  red  chief,  though  he  stood  up  and 
listened.  The  Anglo-Norman  lias  profound  faith  in  parliaments. 
"We  must  argyfy  the  case  with  these  red  devils,"  was  the  con 
clusion  to  which  they  came.  They  had  profound  faith  in  their 
ability  for  "  argyment."  The  result  of  their  deliberations  was 
to  send  forth  one  of  their  number,  accompanied  by  Enemoya, 
bearing  a  white  handkerchief  at  the  end  of  his  rifle,  and  a  long 
pipe  in  his  left  hand  —  both  signs  of  truce  and  amnesty  —  the 
calumet  that  of  the.  red  men,  the  ilag  that  of  the  white.  The 
object  was  to  ascertain  upon  what  terms  the  maiden  would  be, 
given  up.  Of  course  they  did  not  know  what  issues  hung  upon 
her  fate,  or  what  was  her  destiny,  or  that  she  was  the  subject 
of  an  awful  oracle. 

<    HAPTKR     VIII 

AT  the  appearance  of  the  flag  and  the  Omaha  chief,  Ki«mk. 
followed  by  three  others,  emerged  fmm  his  place  of  shelter. 
They  advanced  to  meet  the  flag  without  apprehension,  though 
both  parties  kept  their  weapons  ready,  and  their  eyes  bright. 
Treachery  is  a  warlike  virtue  among  the  savages,  and  our  squat 
ters  well  understood  the  necessity  of  covering  an  enemy,  each 
with  his  rifle,  while  their  e<'inra.les  were  engaged  in  conference. 
How  shall  we  report  this  conference?  It  would  be  impossible 
to  follow  step  by  step  the  details,  as  developed  in  the  broken 
English  of  the  one  party,  and  the  half  savage  Pawnee  of 
the  other.  But  the  high  contracting  parties  contrived,  after  a 
fashion,  to  make  theniRolvefl  separately  understood.  Our  squat 
ter  embasBador  had  little  hesitation  in  coming  as  promptly  to  the 


TH:      .  \. 

:  as  possible.  We  sum  up  much  in  little,  when  \\  c  report 
the  following  :  — 

•  'Taint  a  manly  \\.iy  of  carrying  on  the  war,  catching  n  poor 
young  woman.  What's  the  sperrit  of  a  man  to  lay  hands  upon  a 
girl,  onless  for  love  ami  alVection  !  And  now  von've  got  her, 
what's  the  use  of  her  to  you  .'  You  have  plenty  of  gals  in  your 
..wu  nation.  What  do  yon  want  with  this  Omaha?" 

The  Pawnee  aekn<>v,  lr  1-v  !  that  hi>  people  were  by  no  means 
wanting  in  specimens  of  the  tender  gender.  They  had  enough, 
II  ven  knows,  even  if  all  their  chief>  were  ,,f  the  Kionk  temper. 

"Well,  then,  let's  have  the  gal.  We'll  buy  her  from  you  at 
a  lair  rally ation.  What  do  you  say  now  to  halt'  a  ih.xen  toma 
hawks,  a  dozen  knife-,  two  little  bells,  a  pound  of  fishhooks,  four 
pounds  of  1  >ea.  !>.  and  a  good  overcoat,  hamis.  .me  enough  for  a  king." 

The  goods  were  all  displayed.  Kionk  acknowledged  that 
the  offer  was  a  liberal  one.  But  — and  here  he  revealed  the 
true  difficulty  —  the  captive-girl  was  the  subject  of  an  oracle. 
The  fate  of  Pawnees  or  Omahas  depended  upon  her  life.  She 
•  the  fiery  torture.  In  her  ashes  lay  the  future 
triumph  of  hi*  pc..ph-  over  the  accui.M-d  tribe  of  the  Omaha  ! 
There  could  be  no  trade;  no  price  could  buy  the  captive;  no 
p..wer  save  her  liie  ;  h-  would  forego  his  hold  upon  her  only 
with  lifej  and  in  a  f.-\\  d.iv>  she  should  undergo  the 

torture  by  fire.      Such  was  the  final  answer. 

,  :nal!y  burned  myself,  ef  I  stand  l.v  and  see  her 
burned  ;    M>  look  tO    it,  red-skin  !      I'm   a   human,  after   all;    and 
'.-.n\\  talk  like  hla/.es  before  you  take  her  , 

•1  reached  thi-  ..d  Kionk  ha  i 

made    to  comprehend    the    hYrcrly-rxprr»rd    declaration  of   the 
tfttive  xjiiatter.  when  Missouri,  arousing  from  1.- 

•  Sneuioya.      .  .  metl  t.»  restore  in 

stantly  her  >tien-tli  and  eneigies.      With   a  single  hound,  and  a 
wild  pa-i..nate  ny.  she  daited  -uddenly  away  from  th- 
who  sto,,d  over  her,  and  wh.  ..-uhat   relaxed  his  vigilance 

in    the.  curiosity   which   he    frit    with    regard    to    the   conference. 
•She  flew,  rather  than  ran.  over  the  space  which  la\  .  and 

moya  sprang  f.-rward  l»  recttve  her.  Hut  before  thev  c«.uKl 
niri't,  a  blow  from  the  fist  of  one  of  the  savages  felled  her  to  the 
earth. 


•J:M  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

In  a  moment  the  work  of  (leath  had  begun.  The  hatchet  of 
Enemoya  cleft  the  skull  of  the  brutal  assailant.  Then  rose  his 
war-cry — then  came  the  fierce  shout  of  Kionk  ami  the  rest. 
Every  arrow  was  drawn  to  its  head.  Every  rifle-bead  rested 
with  dead  aim  upon  the  tree  which  gave  shelter  to  an  enemy. 
The  charge  d'affaires  of  the  squatters,  quick  as  lightning,  tore 
the  white  kerchief  from  his  rifle,  and  dodged  into  cover;  while 
Enemoya,  no  longer  capable  of  restraint,  dashed  forward  to 
gather  up  the  beautiful  damsel  from  the  ground  where  she  still 
lay,  stunned  by  the  blow  of  the  Indian.  But  he  was  not  per 
mitted  to  reach  his  object.  It  was  now  Kionk's  turn.  He  threw 
himself  into  the  path  of  the  young  chief  of  the  Omahas,  and  to 
gether  grappling  they  came  together  to  the  earth.  It  was  the 
death  grapple  for  one  or  both.  In  their  hearts  they  felt  mutually 
the  instinct  of  a  deadly  personal  hatred,  apart  from  that  which 
belonged  to  their  national  hostilities.  Closely  did  they  cling ; 
sinuously,  like  serpents,  did  they  wind  about  each  other  on  the 
earth,  rapidly  rolling  over,  fiercely  striving,  without  a  word  spo 
ken  on  either  part.  But  one  weapon  could  either  now  use,  and 
that  was  the  scalp-knife  which  each  bore  in  his  belt.  But  to 
get  at  this  was  not  easy,  since  neither  dared  forego  his  grasp, 
lest  he  should  give  his  opponent  the  advantage. 

Meanwhile  the  rest  were  not  idle.  The  Pawnees,  highly  ex 
cited  by  the  death  of  one  of  their  number,  and  seeing  but  two 
enemies  before  them — never  dreaming  that  there  were  no  less 
than  six  Kentuckians  in  ambush — darted,  with  terrible  yells, 
into  the  foreground.  Two  of  them,  in  an  instant,  bit  the  dust; 
and  the  rest  recoiled  from  the  unanticipated  danger.  The  Ken 
tuckians  now  made  a  rush  in  order  to  extricate  Knemoya,  and 
to  brain  Kionk;  and  the  aspect  of  affairs  was  hopeful  in  tin-  last 
degree  ;  when,  at  this  very  moment,  one  of  the  Pawnees  darted 
out.  of  cover.  He  was  the  brother-in-law  of  Kionk— -thr  sullen 
chief  whom  he  had  overthrown,  and  whose  black  passions  medi 
tated  the  most  hateful  of  revenges.  Before  the  squatters  could 
reach  the  scene  of  action,  the  murderous  m«>nstrr,  whose  purple 
was  wholly  unexpected,  threw  himself  upon  the  crouching  Mis 
souri,  and  with  a  single  blow  buried  his  hatchet  in  her  brain. 
\Yiili  a  howl  of  mixed  sroni  and  exultation  he  had  shrouded 
b!iiiself  in  the  woods,  and  ;>nionjr  his  conn  a.!es.  a  moment  after 


THK    HLKIHTKP    WAIJKIOR. 

The  wretched  Enemoya  beheld  the  horrid  stroke,  but,  grap 
pling  witli  his  own  assailant  lie  had  not  thn  power  to  interfere. 
In  strivii  |  Q  himself  for  this  purpose,  he  gave  his  enemy 

the  advantage.  In  a  moment  both  were  on  their  feet,  and  Kionk 
already  brandished  his  scalp-knife  in  his  grasp.  But  the  < 

-,s  am  in  a  blind  horror.  He  had  seen  the  whiz/ing 
tomahawk  descen d,  crushing  into  the  head  of  the  dusky  beauty 
whom  he  so  much  loved.  He  saw  no  more ;  and  the  uplift  jd 
knife  of  Kionk  was  already  about  to  sheathe  itself  in  his  bosom, 
when  a  rifle  Imllet  from  one  of  the  squatters  sent  him  reeling  to 
the  earth  in  the  last  agonies  of  death.  AVhen  Enemoya  sunk 
;e  the  poor  damsel,  her  eyes  were  already  glazed.  Shf 
knew  him  not.  She  looked  on  him  no  more.  lie  took  the  scalp 
of  Kionk,  but  it  gave  him  no  consolation.  He  fought  like  a 
demon  —  he  slew  many  enemies, —  took  many  scalps,  but  never 
I  whit  the  happier.  His  hope  was  blighted  —  he  loved  the 
du.sky  beauty  of  the  blessed  islet,  much  more  tenderly  than  wo, 
should  Mippo.se  iVoni  the  manner  of  his  wooing  :  and  hene\er 
recovered  from  her  loss.  He  moved  among  his  people  like  a 
.shadow,  and  they  called  him  the  ghost  only  of  the  great  warrior. 
The  campaign  that  season  was  indecisive  between  the  rival 
nations  of  the  I'awnee  and  Omaha.  Neither  had  .succeeded  in 
complying  with  the  requisitions  of  the  oracle.  The  Pawnees  had 
forfeited  their  hope  in  failing  to  bring  their  captive  to  the  torture 
of  tire.  TheOmahas  had  been  equally  unfortunate  in  being 
compelled  to  strike  the  first  blow.  The  first  life  taken  in  the 
\v;,r  W9M  that  oft!..  :  who  smotr  Missouri  with  his 

fist,  ami  whom  Knemova  immediately  >b -w.  Hut  the  campaign 
of  the  ensuing  winter  \\ent  against  the  <  hnahas.  They  had  lo>t 
the  soul  «.f  I  :  who  ceased  to  exhibit  anyenteij 

tin, ugh    be    fought    terribly    when    the    hour    came    for    conflict. 
.Meanwhile,  our  squatters    fn.rn   Kentucky  were  joined  by  oth.-is 
fiom    that  daring   region.      Their  rifles  helped  tin-  (  )niabas 
I..UL:    time;    but  the  latter  were  finally  d.  :  Tlie    remnant 

be   nation  we..  ;    they  knew 

turn.      The  ble».-d  inland  was  almost   the  only  territory  remain 
ing  in  rl  <  .  this  thriv   suddenly  a} 
new  claimant. 

"The-e  are  plea-aut  place-,  boys,"  said  the  head  man  of  the 


SOUTHWARD    HO ! 

squatters,  looking  at  the  lovely  region  around ;  "  it  seems  to  me 
to  be  good  if  we  drive  stakes  and  build  our  cabins  here  —  here 
by  this  quiet  lake,  among  these  beautiful  meadows. —  What  say 
you, —  shall  it  be  here  ?  I  don't  want  to  go  further,  'till  it  comes 
to  be  crowded." 

"  But  this  is  the  abiding  place  of  my  people,  my  brother ;  — 
here  is  the  wigwam  of  Enemoya,  —  yonder  was  the  dwelling 
which  I  built  for  the  wife  of  my  bosom,  the  beautiful  Missouri." 

"  Look  you,  Inimowya,"  answered  the  white  chief,  "  the  argy- 
ment  of  territory,  after  all,  lies  at  the  eend  of  my  rifle.  As  I  told 
you  once  afore,  when  we  first  met,  I  could  dispute  with  you  that 
pr'emption  title,  but  I  wouldn't ;  and  I  won't  now ;  considering 
that  you've  had  a  bad  time  of  it.  But  what's  the  use  of  your 
talking,  when  you  see  the  country's  got  to  be  ours.  Why,  you 
know  we  kin  shoot  round  it  every  day" — again  touching  his 
rifle.  —  "But  that's  not  the  argyment  I  want  to  use  with  you. 
Your  brown  gal,  who  was  a  beauty  for  an  Ingin,  I'm  willing  to 
allow,  is  a  sperrit  now  in  the  other  world.  What  sort  of  heaven 
they  find  for  the  red-skins,  is  unbeknowing  to  me  ;  but  I  reckon 
she's  living  thar.  Thar's  no  living  for  her  hyar,  you  see,  so 
what's  the  use  of  the  cabin  you  built.  But  that's  not  to  say  I 
wants  to  drive  you  out.  By  no  possible  means.  I  like  you  — 
all  the  boys  like  you.  For  a  red-skin  you're  a  gentleman,  and 
a-  you  hev'  no  nation  now,  and  hardly  any  tribe  of  your  own,  why 
squat  down  with  us,  by  any  man's  fireside  you  choose,  and  ef  you 
choose,  you  kin  only  set  down  and  look  on,  and  see  how  we'll  take 
the  shine  out  of  these  Pawnee  cock-a-doodles.  You  kin  share 
with  us,  and  do  as  we  do,  with  all  the  right  nateral  to  a  free 
white  man  ;  but  as  for  your  getting  this  island  from  us  now  that 
we're,  all  ready  to  plant  stakes,  it's  a  matter  onpnssihle  to  I.e. 
arjryfied  except  with  the  tongue  of  the  rifle.  Thar's  no  speech 
that  ever  was  invented  that  shall  make  us  pull  up  stakes  now." 

And  the  rifle  butt  came  down  heavily  upon  the  earth,  ns  the 
chief  of  the  squatters  declared  himself.  Enemoya  regarded  him 
with  a  grave  indifference,  and  said  calmly  :  — 

"  Be  it  so  :  the  island  is  young  ;  the  country  !  Why  should  you 
not  have  it  ?  I  need  it  not !  neither  I  nor  Missouri !  I  thank 
you  for  what  you  say.  But  though  your  cabin  door  is  wide  for 
my  rominp:,  I  do  not  see  Mit.  :iri  beside  the  hearth." 


ONLY    FOR  THE   AXING.  187 

"  Oh  !  for  tlmt  matter,  as  you  are  quite  a  gentleman  l'«»r  a  ml- 
skin,  there's  many  a  pretty  white  gal  that  would  hev  you  for 
the  axinj:." 

"  No  !  I  shall  follow  my  people  to  the  black  prairies,  and  wait 
for  the  voice  of  that  bird  of  the  Spirit,  that  shall  summon  me  to 
the  happy  valley  where  Missouri  walks." 

"Well,  as  you  choose,  Inimowya;  but  let's  to  supper  now 
and  you'll  sleep  under  my  bush  to-night." 

The  rhirt  .silently  consented.  But  at  the  dawn  he  was  no 
where  to  he  seen,  nor  have  the  hunters  ever  heard  of  him  since. 
Meanwhile  the  country  of  the  Omaha,  which  includes  the  lake 
and  the  beautiful  islet,  has  become  the  possession  of  the  pale 
faces,  but  they  call  it  still  after  the  dusky  damsel  of  Omaha,  the 
lovely  and  loving  Missouri. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

"WHAT    rOiNallTUTKS    A    STATE?" 

"  WE  are  now  within  the  atmosphere  of  your  southern 
Hotspur,"  said  our  Gothamite.  "  Come,  sir,"  addressing  our 
cynical  orator  from  Alabama,  "  come,  sir,  and  let  us  have  your 
portrait  of  the  South-Carolinian.  You  have  dealt  freely  with  Vir 
ginia  and  Nortli  Carolina,  showing  us  their  more  salient  features, 
which  are  rarely  the  most  comely  for  boast ;  let  us  see  if  you 
can  not  depict  their  southern  brother  with  as  free  and  dashing  a 
pencil." 

The  Alabamian  smiled,  and  looked  to  Miss  Burroughs,  as  ho 
replied :  — 

"  I  dare  not ;  in  this  instance  there  is  a  lady  in  the  case." 

"  Oh  !  most  unlooked-for  and  most  unseasonable  gallantry  !" 
exclaimed  the  lady.  "  Do  you  forget,  Sir  Orator,  those  wicked 
and  scandalous  ballads,  to  the  grievous  disparagement  of  the 
sex,  which  you  not  only  sang  to  us  of  your  own  motion,  a  vol 
unteer  performance,  but  which  you  sang  with  such  unction  and 
effect,  as  if  the  execution  were  a  sort  of  labor  of  love,  which  yo^ 
would  not  escape,  even  if  you  might  ?" 

"  Ah  !  forgive  the  offence.  It  was  in  evil  mood  that  I  sang, 
and  not  because  of  any  love  for  the  subject." 

"  He's  been  kicked,  I  reckon,  by  some  lady  only  t'othei 
day,"  said  tin-  Texan,  roughly,  "and  the  shins  of  his  affectioni 
arc  still  sore  with  the  bruises." 

"  The  shins  of  his  affections  !  That  is  surely  new.  Wha 
admirable  cropping,  in  the  way  of  metaphor  and  figure,  migh* 
oar  y<mng  ballad-mongers  find  in  the  fields  of  Texas!  Wei! 
I  will  submit  to  the  imputation  of  the  recent  kicking,  as  an  ac 
knowledgment  of  the  merits  of  that  phrase.  'The  shins  of  th< 
affections!'  We  shall  next  hear  something  •  touching,  '  the  te' 


SCRUPLES   OP   THE   ORATOR.  439 

derness  of  the  corns  <>n  tin*  big  too  of  tlic  heart.'     AVhen   .shall 
there  he  a  Texan  j 

"  1. 01  i  >avc  you.  ire*Tt  got  ,1  matters  of  more  than  fifty-five 
already.  W^fVe  gO(  R  Texan  Hemans.  and  a  Texan  Tcmn 

nay.  we've  got  three  Tninys'ins,  and  more  than  thirteen  By- 
rons.  Oh  !  we  are  not  so  badly  off  for  poets  as  you  think.  In 
(ialveston  there's  a  poet  who  weighs  more  than  two  hundred 
and  eighty  pounds,  and  he  has  sighed  ont  love  poetry  enough  to 
fill  the  sails  of  a  California  clipper.  It's  the  opinion  of  some  of 
our  people  that  we  owe  most  of  our  worthies  to  his  love  poems. 
Latteily,  he's  gone  into  the  elegiac;  and  since  Tennyson's  '  Tn 
Memoriam,'  he  has  done  nothing  but  write  •  In  MiMiioriams.'  He 
has  mourned  the  loss  of  more  dear  friends  since  the  date  of  that 
publication,  than  he  ever  knew  people.  In  fact,  not  to  be  irrev 
erent,  speaking  of  poetry,  there's  hardly  a  pi-r.-oii  in  all  T 
that  would  lend  him  a  picayune,  though  it  should  save  his  soul 
from  tin  gall"- 

"  Save  his  soul  from  the  gallows  !  A  new  idea  of  the  punish 
ments  employed  in  Tophet.  Fancy  the  soul  of  a  poet  weighing 
two  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  hung  up  to  dry  in  the  devil's 
clothes  garden  !" 

"But  all  this  talk,"  interrupted  the  son  of  Gotham,  "  must  not 
itVered  to  deprive  us  of  our  portrait  of  the  South-(1arolinian." 

"  You  u''t  no  such  portrait  from  me,''  answered  the  Alaha- 
mian,  abruptly. 

"And  whv  not?''  interrupteil  the  North-Carolinian.  "  V"ii 
had  no  scruples  in  dealing  with  the  Old  Dominion  and  the  old 
North  State." 

"  \  .  rv  true  :    but    then-    an-  I      ',»uld  bar, 

ph->  wlini  \s  e  com.-  i..  S'-uth  Caiolina.  I  know  the  fault<  and 
the  foibles  «>f  that  little  state  as  well  ftfl  aii\-  pei--on  in  thi^  ero\\-d, 
and  I  am  as  well  abb-,  I  reckon,  to  describe  them.  But  I  will 
not.  In  the  lir.-t  place.  I  look  to  that  same  state  to  set  us  right 
I  feel  that  she  will  be  the  first  to  dare 

and    brave   t!  '<•  M  hen    H  I   will   in   no   \ 

however  s:i:.'!'.    i«  Of  My  anythiiiL-  t"  weaken  her  !  dis 

paraging  her  feat  i..  '        :oiiirhs  —  this  to  you  — 

I  owe  my  mother  to   S  -nth  Carolina,  and    the   cradle  which    has 


440  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

rocked  a  mother  should  be  an  ark  of  the  covenant  to  a  loving 
son." 

Our  Alabamian,  by  showing  himself  sentimental  for  a  single 
moment,  had  once  more  put  himself  within  the  pale  of  the  vul 
gar  humanity.  It  was  very  clear  that  we  should  get  nothing 
further  out  of  him  on  the  one  .subject.  Our  North-Carolinian 
endeavored  to  supply  the  desired  portrait,  but  the  limning  was 
contradictory  —  in  fact,  the  moral  portrait  of  South  Carolina  is 
one  of  many  difficulties,  which  it  requires  a  rare  and  various 
knowledge,  and  no  small  skill  of  the  artist  to  manage  and  over 
come  :  and  gradually,  the  embarrassments  of  the  subject  were 
felt,  as  the  discussion  of  her  traits  proceeded,  and  the  subject 
was  finally  abandoned  ns  one  totally  unmanageable.  Of  course 
much  was  said  of  her  luxury,  her  pride  and  arrogance,  her  pre 
sumption  in  leading,  the  vanity  of  her  boasts,  her  short-comings 
in  a  thousand  respects;  all  of  which  provoked  keen  retort,  par 
ticularly  from  our  secessionists  —  the  Alabamian  scarcely  seem 
ing  to  heed  the  controversy,  and  taking  no  part  in  it  till  its  close, 
when  he  said  briefly  :  — 

"  One  word,  gentlemen.  South  Carolina  is  the  only  state 
in  the  Union  which  grants  no  divorce.  If  there  were  nothing 
else,  in  the.  catalogue  of  her  virtues  to  show  the  character  of  her 
virtues,  this  would  suffice.  It  says  two  things.  It  declares  for 
the  steadiness  and  constancy  of  both  sexes,  and  for  the  virtues 
that  render  such  a  measure  unnecessary.  Her  morals  prevent, 
instead  of  pampering,  the  caprices  of  the  affections — " 

"Yes,  but  there  are  some  crimes!  It  would  be  monstrous  to 
keep  parties  fettered,  one  of  whom  is  a  criminal '' 

"  I  understand  you  !  They  do  not  keep  together.  In  Caro 
lina,  in  all  such  cases,  the  criminal  dies  —  disappears,  at  all 
events,  and  the  social  world  never  mentions  again  the  name  of 
the  offender." 

"Very  Roman,  certainly." 

The  Alabamian  did  not  heed  the  sneer,  but  proceeded  — 

"  South  Carolina  is  the  only  state  in  which  there  is  anything 
like  loyalty  to  the  past  remaining.  She  preserves  her  venera 
tion.  The  state  is  protected  from  the  people.*' 

"How  is  that  .'      Is  not  the  state  the  people." 

"No!    very  far  from  it.      Tin-  -tate  N  a  thin."  of  thou^iimU  «-f 


THK    >TATF.  1  H 

it  and  future,  constituting  a  moral  which  ;     I  ved 

from  the    capricftfl   "f  tin-    people.      People  chan-e  daily,  and  in 
their  .laily  change,  fllh'd  with  novel  hopes  and  ex pectati«>ns,  and 
i  ,„,  },y  r  would   easily  forego   a 

thousand  ahsdute  Bfl  which  no   people  at  any  one   time 

sufficiently  values  In  truth,  it  is  only  when  we  treml.le  at  the 
onward  and  reckless  coui>e  of  a  majority,  that  \\  e  are  awakened 
to  the  fact  that  there  are  some  things  which  they  have  no  rijrlit 
to  nerifice.  It  is  then  that  we  see  that  the  p  -  and  ac 

cumulations  of  the  past  are  not  an  inheritance,  hut  a  trust  ;   and 
we  who  occupy  only  a  moment  of  time,  in  the  general    prr<L 
of  the   aires,  are   taught   hy  this   fact    that  we   have    no  al>s«-lute 
rights  over   p,, -sessions  which    helonir  to  generations  yet   untold 
in  the  future,  and  hut  partially  recorded  in  the  past,     To  puard 
the  state  from  the  people,  we  resort   to  a  thousand  devices  such 
nstitutions.  hills  of  rights,  &c.,  none  of  which  is  satisfactory 
•  :e  sufficient  reason  that  the  snhject  is  one  of  singular  suhtilty 
v/hlch    i-si-a]>es   practical    definition.      Tt   is.  however,   within   our 
and  these  work  in  a  thousand  ways,  and  in  spite  of  us 
for  its  preservation.      When   these  fail  us.  the  j"tie,  and 

peOpl«  soon  follow.  They  are  then  without  (Jod  or  country. 
The  French  revolution  was  an  iiMaiM-r  of  the  sacrifice  of  the, 
state  —  that  vaprue  and  vast  idea,  irmwinir  '"'"t  of  the  irradnal  ac 
quisitions  of  thousands  of  years  of  a  common  fortune  in  the  fam 
ily,  or  race  —  hy  a  mere  generation  just  pa -hi-  off  • 

k  at  the  summary  in    France  to-day.      Where   i<  the  1H  . 
the    e.piality.  the    repuhlicanism,  which    were    all    their 
\Yhat    is  left  them  of  ^acre,l  tradition,  of  ].a 

and  acquisition,  of  moral  security  —  which  must  p recede  if  it 
Id  maintain  physical — of  all  that  WHS  deemed  certain  in  the 
characteristics  of  the  rttfe  '  The  jruardian  M-cnrities  and  virtues 
of  ft  people  li,-  in  that  social  ideal  which  is  embodied  in  the  no 
tion  of  the  state  as  a  thini:  permanent.  rontra.listin<:uMM'd  from 
a  mere  generation  ««r  government  —  things  which  C"iit<-mplate 
only  pa-  HI  and  continual  fluctuations,  and  are  re- 

(juired  to  contrihute  in    pa-s;i:ur  only  a  certain  portion  of  capital 
to   that    jrrand    stock    which    has    I,,M-II    already  put    away  ( 
within  the  securities  otil.e  ideal  state.      The  vdian 

ideal,  and   the   conservative    check   upon   the   caj  time. 


l^  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

The  state  represents  the  eternity  of  a  race  —  its  whole  duration 
whether  long  or  short.  Cut  the  sinews  of  the  state,  in  obedience 
to  the  caprices  of  a  generation,  and  they  must  perish.  All  this  is 
v.M-y  obscure,  I  know,  and  it  can  not  well  be  otherwise,  with 
such  a  subject,  and  in  a  mere  casual  conversation.  It  must  ne 
cessarily  elude  all  common  demonstrative  analysis,  particularly 
as  it  lies  based  on  great  but  mysterious  secrets,  in  the  general 
plan  of  Providence,  which  it  is  scarcely  permitted  to  us  to  explore. 
The  subject  belongs  to  the  spiritual  nature  in  high  degree  and 
is  not  to  be  measured  by  the  common  rules  of  argument.  It 
constitutes  a  study  for  the  metaphysician  who  is  at  the  same 
time,  a  religious  man.  It  is  one  of  those  problems  which  the 
rulers  of  a  people  have  need  carefully  to  study,  as  it  is  upon  the 
due  knowledge  and  appreciation  of  'the  state,'  that  every  peo 
ple's  future  must  depend.  Nations  perish  really  because  of  their 
simple  failure  to  recognise  this  distinction  between  state  and 
people  :  and  it  is  thus  that  a  capricious  generation,  perpetually 
bent  on  change,  restless  and  impatient  because  of  its  atrocious 
vanity,  still  wrecks  all  the  ideal  morals  of  their  ancestors,  and 
all  the  hopes,  born  of  those  ideals,  which  would  conduct  their 
posterity  to  power." 

"  I  confess  this  transcendentalism  is  quite  too  much  for  me.  I 
do  not  see  the  meaning  yet  of  your  distinction.  It  appears  to 
me  only  a  dreamy  sophism." 

"  Precisely,  and  if  you  will  show  me  the  man  to  whom  a  met 
aphysical  suUilty  is  for  the  first  time  presented,  who  is  prepared 
on  the  instant  not  only  to  argue  it  but  to  judge  it,  I  shall  be 
Avilling  to  attach  some  importance  to  your  present  cavalier  dis 
missal  of  the  topic.  Your  process  seems  to  be  that  of  one  of  our 
western  members  of  Congress,  who,  some  years  ago,  began  his 
speech  with,  '  I  don't  know  nothing,  Mr.  Speaker,  of  the  sub 
ject  hyar  before  us,  but  I  intend  to  go  on  argyfying  it  ontil  1 
gits  all  the  necessary  knowledge.'  But  even  he,  bold  and 
brave  and  candid  as  he  was,  never  ventured  to  decide.  He  only 
proposed  to  use  '  argyment'  as  a  means  of  getting  his  '  edica- 
tion.'  " 

41  Why,  you  are  perfectly  savage." 

"No;  searching  only. —  To  resume  our  subject  for  a  moment 
There  is  a  passage  from  one  of  our  southern  poets,  who 


THF.    IW'Al.    STATi:.  11- '. 

ha>  rndeav»red  t«»  express  something  of  tliis  idea  of  '  the  statr* 
a-  it  appi-ar>  t<>  my  own  mind.  Like  all  others,  who  have 
ken  and  written  on  the  point,  tho  suhtilty  still  eludes  him  ;  hut 
enough  is  said  to  ^ive  the  clues  into  the  hands  of  the  metaphy 
sician  ;  and  no  .-tli-r  person,  hy  the  way,  has  any  right  to  pass 
upon  it." 

"  Let's  have  tin1  passage." 

The  Alabamiau  delivered  it,  from  memory,  to  the  following 
effect  :— 

"THE    STATE. 

"Tho  mural  «>f  tin-  nu-e  N  in  tin-    v 
"flu*  secret  perm  for  preut  development, 
Through  countless  generations: —  all  the  hope*, 
Tin-  aim.-,  the  great  ambition,  the  jiroinl  works, 
Virtues,  performance,  high  de«,ius  and  deeds, 
With  countless  pure  nnd  JTC  «  iu,,s  sentiment*, 

.  d  in  <i.mr  f.-\v  Lriivr  souls,  tliat,  still  apart 
From  the  rude  hunger  of  the  multitude, 
Li^'lit  tiros,  huilt  altars,  inline  out  tlie  (iod 
That  makes  the  pro  ml  ideal:  —  which,  unknown, 
C'iii-ini..i-ii.u«ly,  tin-  thonghtloM  tribea  ronreive 
In  a  blind  worship  ;   which  is  still  content 
To  follow  Duty  through  the  bonds  of  terror, 
Ami  learn  its  b«--t  obedience  through  its  fear*. 

A  state's  the  pmwth 

Of  t        •        •  •    M,:«-ind  yi-art, 

With  nil  it«  pnn.d  rommiinity  of  tl.oupht*, 
Affections,  faith,  ami  •enlimontii,  a*  well 
At  its  material  trBUOn  i.      '!':.'-••  are  naught, 
If  that  llie  fiiith,  the  virtues,  ami  the  will, 
He   lacking'  to  th«-  men.      Th.'  «:u:irdi:in  state 
K.  ,  ..«  di  M  ;     •  ure  not  your*, 

Or  mine;    nor  do  they  n  «t  within  the  charge 

Of    the    in-T"    feeders    at    til'  '   lib, 

Of  nil  the  myriads,  keeping  price  \\ith  us, 

but  links, 

I      i  'cunr-banHi'd,  many-ftbred  -tm-k, 
Uranchinp  and  sprendini.'  "  »idi», 

With  every  tiny  tome  chm  iml  aim, 

Hub-,  province  ami  di'  II   !ii!"-«r 

Each  with  a  moment  purpose,  tn  ; 
Some  passion  or  mere  fancy  —  »ome  caprice— 
Whi«  h.  a-  even  evil  works  Ml 
Must,  in  its  Him.  contribnti-  lo  the  truth*. 


444  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

That  are  still  garnered  safely  in  the  state. 

Our  march  makes  little  in  the  grand  design 

Save  as  a  natural  incident  that  grows, 

Inevitably,  out  of  natural  progress, 

Leaving  its  moral  in  its  very  loss. 

Our  change  must  work  no  changes  i/i  tln»  staie, 

Which  still  maintains  the  original  ideal  germ, 

Sacred  within  its  keeping,  as  the  Romans, 

The  sacred  shields  that  fell  to  them  from  Heaven 

As  in  all  nations  there  are  fabled  treasures, 

Shrined  awfully  apart,  to  which  men  look, 

For  safety,  when  the  temple  rocks  in  fire, 

And  the  walled  city  totters  in  the  storm. 

—  March  as  we  may  and  govern  as  we  may, 

Change  with  what  sad  or  wild  caprice  we  may, 

The  indisputable  majesty  which  makes 

The  sovereignty  which  harbors  in  each  race, 

Knows  never  change  of  attribute,  till  ends 

The  mission,  which  the  endowment  still  declares!'' 

The  orator  paused. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  Why,  we  are  no  nigher  to  the  solution  of  the 
problem  than  before." 

"  I  suppose  not.  Poetry,  the  profoundest  of  all  human  stud 
ies,  itself  requires  the  abstract  mind  and  the  contemplative 
mood  ;  and  the  necessity  for  these  is  the  greater  when  it  deals 
ill  metaphysics  and  politics.  Perhaps,  if  you  weigh  well  this 
passage,  you  will  gradually  see  the  light  through  the  cloud  and 
curtain.  Precious  things  rarely  lie  upon  the  surface.  In  pro 
portion  to  the  glory  is  the  necessity  of  obscuration.  God  showed 
himself  to  the  Jews  only  through  clouds  and  fire.  They  could 
see  him  only  through  some  material  medium.  It  was  the  poet 
prophet  only  who  could  discover  his  awful  features  through  less 
terrible  agencies." 

"  You  are  getting  more  and  more  obscure.  Now,  pray  tell  us, 
what  have  all  your  metaphysics  to  do  with  South  Carolina  V 

"  Nothing,  that  1  can  show  you,  unless  you  can  take  the  first 
step  with  me — which,  as  yet,  you  can  not.  It  may  be  enough 
to  say  of  South  Carolina,  that  it  is  a  sufficient  merit  of  hers,  in 
my  eyes,  that  her  revolutionary  spirit  (so  called)  has  been  the 
iv, ult  of  her  loyalty;  that  it  was  to  check  revolution  that  she 
intci  jiosrd  the  state  veto,  and  threw  down  her  gauntlet  to  fed- 
i-rnl  usurpation.  You  all  feel  and  see,  now,  that  she  was  right. 


80UTB    CABOUHA.  -1  •!•"> 

You  are  all  in  n  "f  five  trade  and  a  prosperous  prog 

the  result  of  her  course,  which  leav.-s  the  condition  of  the  cmm- 
trv  unexampled  in  history  for  its  growth  and  prosperity.  II- : 
conservatism,  not  her  resolution,  prompted  her  action  ;  and  she 
still  adheir-  to  her  conservative  tendencies,  while  all  other  states 
are  rocking  with  the  conflict  of  revolutionary  ideas.  She  still 
preserves  lier  veneration.  There  are  still  many  classes  u  ithin 
her  limits,  who  maintain  the  morals  of  her  dawn  —  who  seek  to 
preserve  sacred  that  capital  of  ideal  in  the  state  which,  kept 
alwnvs  in  view  as  a  guiding  light,  renders  progress  a  safe  and 
natural  development,  and  not  an  inane  and  insane  coursing  in  a 
circle  where  we  for  ever  come  in  conflict  with  one  another. 
Hi-re  you  find,  still  of  force,  the  manners  and  customs,  the  senti 
ments  and  traditions,  that  she  held  to  be  great  and  glorious 
'•i^hty  years  ago;  and  which  have  enahled  her,  though  one  of 
the  small  in  the  contV. It-racy,  to  contribute  a  large  pro 

portion  of  its  greatest  warriors,  its  noblest  and  wisest  sages,  its 
purest  and  mor-t  venerated  men.  You  can  not  bully  her  out  of 
her  propriety,  for  she  has  unshaken  courage;  you  can  not  buy 
her  with  any  bribe,  for  she  has  always  shown  herself  scornful 
of  cupidity.  She  maintains  still  the  haughty  sentiments  of  a 
race  of  gentlemen  who  never  descended  to  meanness.  She  lias 
a  thousand  foibles  faults  —  nay,  follies — perhaps,  but  she  ha* 
some  virtues  which  power  can  not  crush  out  of  her,  or  money 
buy  :  and  she  will  be  the  state,  let  me  tell  you,  who  will  save 
all  that  is  worth  saving  in  t:  ieracy,  even  when  the  con- 

perishes." 

"Why,    old     Blast,"   interposed    the    Texan,   "yon    mu-t    ho 

thinking   that    you're    mi  the   stump.       Yon   do    put   your   horns 

into  the  bowels  of  the  argument ,  just  as  if  you  knew  when-  you 

Was  a-going  all  the  time.      Lord,  how   -      .    II     >     Q  would  laugh 

u  was  to  tell  Jinn  of  such  prophecies  as  that." 

n    Houston!      Sir.  don't    -p«-ak    f"    lll(>   "f   iV;;l111     " 
He'l      •  N  ond   the  reach  ..f  prophecy,  which    is   never  addn 
to  any  but  living  smils  '" 

\V.-11,  I  must  s.ty  that's  a  settler  for  Sam.  Hut  he'll  take 
the  change  out  of  vou,  I  reckon,  when  In-  comes  to  be  piv-ident. 
You'll  never  ^vt  a  lon-i^ii  appointment  from  him,  I'm  a-think- 
ing;  and  I  reckon  Sam's  chance  for  the  pi ,  si  lency  is  about  as 
good  as  that  of  any  man  going." 


44G  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

We  put  in  here,  several  of  us,  to  arrest  tlio  partisan  tendency 
of  the  discussion,  which  evidently  began  to  '•  >•//<•"  some  of  the 
parties ;  and  our  excellent  captain  came  to  our  assistance,  with 
his  jest  and  smile,  his  quip  and  crank,  which  have  alwavs  proved 
so  effective  in  curing  the  maladie  du  mer  among  his  passengers 

"  I'm  president  here,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  and  I  hold  it  to 
be  good  law  to  declare  that  it  is  high  treason  to  discuss  the  suc 
cession.  As  there  is  some  talk  of  appointments,  T  Leg  to  say, 
that  if  any  of  you  wish  office,  the  governorship  of  Bull's  is 
vacant." 

And  he  pointed  us  to  the  island  of  that  name  which  made  the 
rim  of  the  horizon  for  us  on  the  north. 

"  There  is  an  island,  gentlemen,  upon  which  a  man  might  be 
a  sovereign.  Solitude  in  perfection,  game  in  abundance,  fine 
fish  of  all  sorts,  oysters  to  beguile  even  an  alderman  to  fleshlv 
and  fishy  inclination  —  such  a  realm  as  would  satisfy  Alexander 
Selkirk,  and  make  Robinson  Crusoe  dance  with  delight.  I  have 
often  thought  of  Bull's  as  an  island  upon  which  a  man  might 
be  at  peace  with  all  the  world,  and  with  fortune  and  himself  in 
particular." 

"  A  sort  of  heaven  on  earth." 

"  And  sea.  It  has  fine  harborage,  too.  The  coast  survey 
has  made  it  a  harbor  of  refuge,  and  we  are  soon  to  have  a  light 
house  upon  it." 

"  The  pirates  knew  it  as  a  place  of  refuge  a  hundred  years 
ago  and  more.  Here  Robert  Kidd,  '  as  he  sailed,'  and  that  more 
monstrous  ruffian  Blackboard,  and  a  hundred  other  fierce  out 
laws  of  the  same  practice,  found  their  place  of  refuge  and  red- 
licking.  Nor  here,  alone  :  all  the  range  of  islands  which  run 
along  the  coast,  between  which  and  the  main  there  are  nu 
merous  islets  of  great  beauty  and  interest,  are  distinguished 
by  traditions  of  wild  and  sometimes  terrible  attraction.  Many 
of  these,  have  been  marked  as  spots  conspicuous  in  history, 
and  all  of  them  possess  their  legends  and  chronicles,  which 
only  need  to  be  hunted  up  and  put  on  record,  to  render  all  of 
them  classical  and  interesting,  apart  from  their  natural  attrac 
tions.  The  whole  of  this  region  was  the.  favorite  resort  of 
the  pirates,  and  at  periods  long  anterior  to  the  Revolution, 
—  those  periods  when,  as  the  phrase  ran  through  the  marine 


NT 

of  Groat  Britain,  '  there  was  no  j  ".-tec  beyond  the  line1'  In 
these  snug  harbors  an<l  safe  retreats  tin1  mousing  robber  found 
bis  CO  :  B  he  lay  close  until  bo  beheld,  from  afar.  the. 

white  sails  of  the  fair  trailer.  Then  he  darted  forth  like  tlie 
.shark,  a  little  black  speck  u|i..n  the  waters,  and  tore  bis  victim 
with  angrv  and  remorseless  jaws,  and  dyed  the  blue  waters  in 
his  blood.  To  these  islets  he  hurried  hark  to  divide  and  to  bide 
his  spoil  ;  and  dark  and  terrible  are  the  thousand  stories  which, 
could  they  -peak,  they  might  narrate  of  the  wild  orgies  of  the 
cruel  bands  by  which  they  were  infested — of  the  bloody  sacri- 
\vhich  they  witnessed  —  and  of  the  fate  of  the  victims  guilty 
of  the  inexpiable  oilence  of  possessing  treasures  which  their 
neighbors  coveted.  Young  eagles  must  be  fed,  and  the  eagles 
of  the  sea  are  proverbially  the  most  voracious  of  all  the  eagle 
tribe.  These  were  merciless.  They  havered  about  the  mouth 
of  Charleston  for  long  periods,  and  it  was  in  vain  that  Britain 
kept  watch  with  her  frigates  and  guanla  costas  for  the  proter- 
"f  her  trade.  Her  wealth,  as  a  colony,  was  at  that  time 
superior  to  m«.st  of  the  colonies,  and  demanded  powerful  protec 
tion.  But  so  swift  of  foot.  BO  keen  of  sight,  so  fierce  of  appetite, 
were  these  marauding  wretches,  that  they  too  commonly  evaded 
pursuit,  and  not  only  succeeded  in  capturing  the  outward-hound 
Is  continually,  but  sometimes  laid  the  infant  city,  it-elf, 
under  contribution. 

"Our   friend    from    North    Carolina    lias   bestowed   upon   n-  a 

ig   narrative  of  the  'Ship  of  Fire.'      The  tradition 

is  well    known    in    portions   of   South  Cap-linn;    and  to  this   day 

,111    families    are    pointed    out    as    the    descendants   of    • 
cruel   mariners  who  so  meivile»ly  slaughtered    that  little  colony 
of  Cerman  palatines.      (  hir  trad  'ut   out  the   progcn 

these    piv  -till    under  the.   avenging  danger  of  the  fates. 

Thev    are    marked    by    continuous    ffl  •       The    favorite   SOD 

'-lies,  from  .-oiii"  terrible  accident,  in  the  moment  of  his  very 
highest    promise;    the   favorite   daughter   withers    away   in    con 
sumption  or  some  nameless  di-e  tf  .she  nears  that  bloomy 
-i    when    the    mother    thinks   to    place    within    her   hair  the 
bridal  flower.      The  neighh..r-  shake  their  heads  and  l-.,,k  know 
ingly  when  the  h.-lt  <!••                  iddenly  upon  tho^  .  and 
no   surprise.     •  It  must  be  so,'  they 


448  SOUTHWARD    IIO  ! 

must  have  their  prey.  The  blood  of  that  massacre  must  be 
washed  out  in  blood.  All  these  families,  the  descendants  of 
the  murderers,  must  die  out,  till  not  one  man-child  shall  .survive.' 
Their  ill-gotten  wealth  does  them  no  good.  Their  fruits  turn 
to  ashes  on  their  lips.  The  sword,  suspended  by  a  single  hair, 
hangs  for  ever  over  their  heads,  and  the  bolt  strikes  them  down 
from  the  bosom  of  an  unclouded  sky.  So  well  has  tradition 
retained  these  memories,  that  people  will  even  give  you  the 
names  of  the  families,  still  living,  over  which  this  terribly  uner 
ring  destiny  impends.  I  have  had  one  or  more  domestic  chron 
icles  of  this  soil  put  into  my  possession  within  five  years.  Of 
course,  the  doomed  victims  have  no  sort  of  knowledge  either  of 
the  fates  reserved  for  them,  or  of  the  familiarity  of  their  neigh 
bors  with  the  unwritten  tradition.  Old  people  point  them  out 
to  their  children ;  they  repeat  the  story  to  their  sons,  and  their 
fingers  point  always  to  the  illustrative  catastrophe.  Every 
stroke  of  Providence  is  keenly  observed  and  dwelt  upon  which 
touches  them;  and  it  may  be  safely  affirmed  that  the  tradition 
will  survive  them  all,  and  point  to  the  grave  of  the  last  supposed 
victim  of  a  crime  committed  two  hundred  years  ago  or  more." 

"  How  very  terrible  !" 

"  These  several  islands  which  we  approach  after  Bull's,  De- 
wee's,  Caper's,  Long,  and  Sullivan,  and  the  islets' which  lie  within, 
between  them  and  the  main,  are  all  thus  fruitful  in  ancient 
pirate  legends.  One  of  these  occurs  to  me  at  this  moment ;  and, 
ab  I  believe  I  am  the  next  person  chronicled  on  your  list  for  a 
story,  I  may  as  well  pursue  the  vein  upon  which  we  have  struck, 
as  it  were,  by  chance." 

"  0,  let  us  have  it,  by  all  means.  I  confess  to  a  passion  for 
such  stories,  which  even  the  reading  of  the  Book  of  the  Bucca 
neers  has  not  totally  overcome." 

THE  STORY  OF  BLACKBEARD. 
I  . 

"THE  narrative,"  said  our  xicontiur,  "which  I  am  about  to 
^ive  you,  was  related  to  me  by  one  of  our  oldest  inhabitants,  a 
)lantcr  who  is  still  living  at  the  advanced  period  of  eighty  years 


BLACKBEARD.  449 

and  who  ranks  not  loss  venerably  from  worth  than  age.  He 
heard  it  from  those  who  claimed  to  have  known  personally  Borne 
of  the  parties  to  the  history,  and  who  fully  believed  the  truth 
of  the  story  which  they  told.  The  period  of  the  narrative  was, 
perhaps,  a  quarter  of  a  century  before  the  Revolution. 

•  You  are  all  aware  that  from  1670  to  1750,  using  round  num 
bers,  the  buccaneer-,  leagued  of  all  nations,  no  longer  confining 
themselves  to  the  Spanish  galleons  which  were  always  held  to 
be  fair  prey  to  the  r.riti>li  rniisers,  made  the  commerce  of  Britain 
her-olf  finally  their  prey,  and  literally  haunted  with  daily  ter 
rors  the  coasts  of  Virginia  and  the  two  Carolinas,  as  well  as 
the  West  Indies,  making  spoil  of  their  rich  and  but  little  pro 
tected  productions.  Their  cre\vs.  composed  of  the  scum  of  all 
nations — British,  French,  Dutch,  Portuguese,  and  Spaniards — 
discriminated  in  behalf  of  none  ;  and  so  loose  were  British  and 
American  morals  at  that  period  —  (have  they  very  much  improved 
since?)  —  that  the  people  of  the  provinces  themselves  —  their 
ver\  governors —  were  greatly  inclined  to  countenance  they' 

:  -'•nch   corruption   of  freebooters)  in   all    those  cases  of 

piracy  \\here  they  themselves  were  not  the  immediate  sufferers. 

v  drove  a   profitable   trade  with   the   marauders,  who  were 

walking  the   ptnttl  of  the  Atlantic  cities 

with  the  most  perfect  impunity.  Captain  Kidd.  for  a  long  time, 
was  the  great  masterspirit  of  the.se  wretche-.  Hi-  -ucee->or in 
audacity,  insolence,  and  crime,  was  the  infamous  Blackboard, 
the  nom  du  guerre  by  which  lie  preferred  that  the  world  should 
read  his  character.  His  proper  name.  Kdward  Teach,  was,  ii, 
it-elf,  innocent  enough. 

"  Blackboard  particularly  affected  the  coasts  of  Carolina. 
The  waters  over  which  we  now  go  were  the  favorite  fields  of 
his  performance.  Harbored  am.mg  tbe-e  island* — Hull'-,  De- 
wee's,  Caper's,  Sullivan.  St-ewre.  and  other-  —  he  lay  in  close 
watch  for  the  white  sails  of  commerce.  He  explored  all  i' 
bays  and  harbors,  and  knew  their  current-  and  bearing-  well. 
from  the  cape  of  Hatteras  to  that  of  Florida  reef.  He  had 
command  of  a  complete  squadron,  including  vessels  of  nearly 
all  sixes  His  flag  was  hoisted  upon  a  forty-gun  ship,  the  crew 
of  which  consisted  of  more  than  a  hundred  men.  His  captains 
were  Vane,  Bonnet,  Warloy,  and  others,  inferior  to  himself  only 


450  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

in  hardihood  and  skill.  Somewhere  about  1713,  a  proclamation 
had  been  issued  by  the  king  in  council,  promising  a  pardon 
to  all  the  pirates  who  should  surrender  themselves  in  twelve 
months.  Blackbeard  was  one  of  those  who,  cither  through  a 
cunning  policy,  meant  to  delude  the  powers  which  he  feared  ho 
should  not  so  readily  escape,  or  under  a  sudden  uneasiness  of 
conscience,  presented  himself  before  Governor  Eden,  of  North 
Carolina,  pleadei  the  king's  pardon,  and  received  the  governor's 
certificate.  Eden,  by  the  way,  was  one  of  those  governors  of 
whom  history  speaks,  as  having  received  the  bribes  of  the 
pirates,  and  kept  up  a  criminal  but  profitable  connection  with 
Blackbeard  in  particular. 

"  Blackbeard,  the  better  to  prove  his  resolve  to  demean  him 
self  for  the  future  with  Christian  propriety,  married  his  thirteenth 
wife,  a  young  girl  of  Pamplico.  But  he  could  not  long  forbear 
his  riotous  habits,  or  forego  his  passion  for  adventures  upon  the 
sea.  He  was  soon  again  on  board  a  smart  cruiser,  and  reaping 
the  fields  of  ocean  with  the  sword.  He  sailed  upon  a  cruise, 
carrying  his  new  wife  with  him,  and  shortly  returned  with  a 
valuable  prize,  a  French  ship  laden  with  sugar  and  cocoa,  which 
he  had  no  difficulty  in  persuading  the  court  of  admiralty  he 
had  found  at  sea,  abandoned  by  her  crew.  She  was  adjudged 
as  a  lawful  prize  to  her  unlawful  captors.  Here  our  narrative 
begins.  Thus  far,  our  facts  are  strictly  historical  —  except,  per 
haps,  in  regard  to  the  fact  stated,  that  his  new  wife,  the  girl  of 
Pamplico,  accompanied  him  on  this  cruise.  But  the  fact,  omit 
ted  by  history,  is  supplied  by  tradition,  which  asserts  that  the 
girl  herself  figured  somewhat  in  the  incidents  connected  with 
the  capture  of  the  French  prize. 

"  Blackbeard  steered  south  when  he  left  the  river  of  Cape 
Fear.  The  season  was  mild,  late  spring — the  seas  smooth  — 
the  winds  fresh  and  favorable.  Soon  they  espied  the  French 
brigantine  laying  her  course,  due  east  from  the  tropical  islands. 

"As  he  beheld  his  new  prey,  the  savage  chief — who,  in 
taking  the  oath  and  receiving  the  king's  pardon  from  the  royal 
governor,  had  not  denuded  himself  of  a  single  hair  of  that 
enormous  forest  of  beard  which  literally  covered  his  face,  head, 
and  breast,  and  from  which  he  took  his  name  —  chucked  his  new 
wife  under  the  chin,  and  swore  i  terrible  oath  that  the  girl  should 


THE   YOUN<;    MERCHANT.  451 

see  sights,  should   drink   of  tin-   wine  of  tin-   Indies,  and   enjoy 
their  fruits,  and  be  clad  in  tin-  beautiful  silks  of  the  Frenchman. 

"All  sail  was  clapped  on  for  pur>uit.  The  Frenchman  knew 
hi-  danger,  at  a  glance.  Not  more  certainly  docs  the  flying-fish 
know  his  enemy  the  dolphin,  or  the  tunny  the  hwordtish,  or  the 
sailor  the  shark,  than  the  simple  trader  the  deadly  danger  of  that 
pirate  toe,  who  combined  all  the  terrible  characteristic*  of  i 
several  marauders  of  the  sea.  Fleet  was  the  Frenchman  in  flight, 
hut,  unhappily,  fleeter  far  was  the  outlaw  in  pursuit.  Very  pre 
cious  was  the  Frenchman's  cargo;  one  more  precious  still, 
among  his  pa>s»'iigers,  ^  as  the  fair  Creole  wife  of  the  young 
merchant,  Louis  Chastaign,  now,  I'm-  the  fir>t  time,  preparing  to 
visit  the  birthplace  of  her  husband.  They,  too,  were  soon  made 
aware  of  the  danger,  and,  while  the  wife  watched,  and  prayed, 
and  trembled,  the  young  husband  got  his  cutlass  and  his  cara 
bine  in  readiness,  and  prepared  to  do  battle  to  the  last  in  defence 
of  the  precious  treasure  of  his  heart. 

"  But  his  resolution  was  not  to  be  indulged.  The  captain  of 
the  merchantman  had  no  adequate  force  for  resUtance,  and  he 
prepared  for  none.  He  shook  his  head  when  Louis  Chastaign 
spoke  of  it,  and  appeared  on  deck  with  his  weapons. 

"'It  will  not  do,  Monsieur  Loni>.' 

••'And  shall  we  yield  tamely  to  these  wretches?  They  an* 
pirates!' 

'"I  fear  so.  But  they  are  two  to  one.  We  have  no  arms. 
What  can  a  dozen  swords  and  pistols  do  against  a  hundred 
men?' 

"  'Better  die  bravely  tighting  than  basely  to  offer  our  throats 
to  the  knife.' 

"'Nay,  our  hope  is  that  they  will  content  themselves  with 
robbing  us  of  our  treasures.' 

"The  young  merchant  turned  with  a  look  of  agony  on  his 
beautiful  Creole.  He  knew  what  the  appetite-,  of  the  pirates 
were.  He  feared  for  the  one  treasure,  over  all.  and  thought 
nothing  of  the  rest,  though  the  better  portion  of  the  ship's  cargo 
was  his  own.  The  chase  was  last.  The  Frenchman 

continued  to  try  his  heels,  but  in  vain. 

"'He  gains  rapidly,  Monsieur  [xxu*.      Put  away  your  weap- 


452  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

ons,  my  friend ;  the  very  show  of  them  may  provoke  nim  to 
cruelty.' 

"  The  poor  young  man  was  compelled  to  submit,  yet,  in  put 
ting  his  weapons  out  of  sight,  he  felt  as  if  his  treasure  was 
already  gone. 

" '  Is  there  really  so  much  danger,  Louis  V  asked  the  trem 
bling  woman  of  her  husband.  He  could  only  shake  his  head 
mournfully  in  reply.  Then  she  kissed  the  cross  which  she  had 
in  her  hand,  and  hid  it  away  in  her  bosom,  and  followed  her 
young  lord  upon  the  deck  of  the  vessel. 

"  At  that  moment,  the  cannon  belched  forth  its  fires  from  the 
pursuing  pirate  ;  the  iron  missiles  shot  through  the  rigging  of  the 
Frenchman,  and  with  a  groan  he  ordered  sail  to  be  taken  in  ; 
and  prepared  for  submission  to  the  enemy  from  whom  there  was 
no  escape. 

II. 

"  VERY  soon  the  pirate  vessel  came  alongside  of  the  peaceful 
trader.  Her  wild  and  savage  crew  were  ranged  along  the  bul 
warks,  each  armed  with  cutlass  and  half  a  score  of  pistols  con 
spicuous  in  belt  and  bosom.  Very  terrible  was  the  exhibition 
which  they  made  of  wild  beard  and  brutal  aspect.  With  a  tor 
rent  of  oaths,  Blackboard  himself'  bailed  tlie  Frenchman,  who 
put  on  all  his  politeness  in  responding  to  the  insolent  demands 
of  his  assailant.  The  vessels  were  lashed  together  by  £rap- 
plings,  the  pirates  streamed  on  board,  and  a  general  search  was 
begun.  Meanwhile,  the  young  Creole  bride  of  Louis  Chastaign 
kept  at  her  prayers  below.  Here  she  was  found,  and  dragged 
up  to  the  deck  at  the  command  of  the  pirate-chief.  The  pa>- 
sengers,  all,  and  crew,  were  made  to  gather  on  the  deck,  under 
the  pistols  of  a  score  of  the  marauders,  while  the  rest  ransacked 
the  hold  and  cabin. 

"The  examination  lasted  not  long.  Blackboard  soon  disco\ 
ered  that  the  cargo  was  one  for  which  he  should  have  to  find  ;. 
market.  Its  treasures  were  not  readily  portable,  nor  easily  con 
verted  into  money.  The  gold  and  silver,  jewels,  and  precious 
stones,  found  in  the  trunks  of  the  young  French  merchant 
though  of  considerable  value,  bore  no  proportion  to  the  value  of 
the  cargo,  the  bulk  of  which  rendered  it  necessary  that  the  ves- 


THK    <;IRI,    OF    I'AMPUCO.  4£3 

-houM  1..-  carried  into  p,,rt.      Thi>  necessity  implied  another. 
Tin-  crew  ami  p..  :lUst  l,e  «li>j,..s,..l  ,,t'.     As  the  scheme 

presented  itself  to  the  inin.i  ,,t'  Bla.-kheard  U)  have  the  -, 
condemned  l,y  the  court  of  admiralty  as  a  lawful  pri/o.  it  needed 
that  ho  should  hi-  prepared  to  report  that  she  **fl  found  al.an- 
doned  l.y  her  proper  owners.  This  revive  re<juired  that  he 
should  MiiVor  JIM  witiM'sM.>  to  live  \vl,,,  mi-ht  expon  th«-  fnie  na 
ture  «,r  the  trau^ai-ti..,,.  H,.  li;l,l  ,„,  n-innv^\u\  M-rupl.-s,  and 
the  decree  was  s,,,,n  j.ron.. uncoil.  The  unhaj.j.\  ,  were 

d.M.nird  to  walk  the  jilank. 

"That  U  to  MJ,  all  were  thu.s  .iomned  who  ^.--uld  n.tu>e  t.. 
join  the  j.irate  party.  There  W9M  this  terrilde  alternative  to  be 
alh.we.l  them.  Acc..nliu^ly.  havin-r  >een  \\hat  were  the  treas- 
Oiea  Of  the  .shij..  and  fully  >ati>tied  himself  «,f  what  she  OOQ- 
Uiied,  l,e  reasr.-nde.l  t«.  the  .leek,  where  the  unfortunate  new 
I  held  in  durance,  pale  and  tremhlin-.  in  wailing  for  their 

fate.      Brief  consultation    had    1 n    needed    am.-  ,-at.>- 

chiefs.      Blaekl-ear-l  had  Driven  his  opinion,  in  which  the  lieuten 
ants    all    concurred:    and    there    was   no   consultation    Me* 
when  they  n  aj.peared  mi  deck. 

-'I'he  terrihle  chief,  rln^-ly  followed  l,y  his  new  uife.  the  -ill 
i'amj.liei,.  ,  -,j,  ,,f  r;ijltiX).,    j,,    .,11  | 

of  a-  ^nine.  and    furioi,.    ..perch.      His  wife  was  KM 

a    terror  in   the    ,  •.  ,,-   y.-iin^-  French  ,  ;  ,an 

iiahited  only  in  part  like   a  woman.      She  w,,re  a  .skirt. 

"'U(l-  '-"t  the    pant.  a    man    app eared   heneath,  and 

•s'"'  i't  "f  undre->  uniform  !Vock-«-..at  covere.l  with  tVWt 

(>t  "  Men  hiittmis.      On  her  .slnmlders  were  heavv  epati- 

1<>'>:    "ii  h'-r  !"  ad    a    .lashin-   cap   of  fur.  with   a   feat  I .. 

.ml  a  middy's  dirk  with  irlitrerin-  ha 
'ihin-  I. ut    a    hea\y  mi.  ter- 

ril)Ir  i"  *'  'the  y.Mu,-  l-'ivm-h  hnsl-aud  a>  in  those  «.f  his 

^il'«'.  To  JM  dli  ;  rtrait  more  r,.\i.Itin^.  \\  e  must  a. Id  that 
lier  face  was  r.-<ldened  and  Moated  uith  free  use  ,,f  the  wine  vup. 
ail<1  I'''"'  '  t.  from  the  >ame  unnatural 

The  red  "f  tli.-  pi:  .   not   he  descrihed.       It   will  Mltli 

that    in    their    costume    and    e(|uipjnent    nothing    1 
omitted  whicli  mi-ht  exaggerate  to  the  mind  of  the  captives,  the 
terrible  character  of  the  profession  they  pursued. 


454  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"  The  pirate-chief  addressed  the  captain  of  the  Frenchman 
with  words  of  blood  and  thunder.  The  latter  answered  with 
words  of  weakness  and  submission.  The  former  without  scruple 
declared  the  only  alternative  to  death  which  he  allowed. 

'"Are  you  prepared  to  join  us  against  the  world?  We  are 
free  men  of  the  seas.  We  are  of  no  nation.  We  own  no  laws 
except  those  of  our  own  making.  Swear  to  obey  our  laws,  join 
our  crews,  sail  under  the  black  flag  and  the  bloody  head,  and 
take  your  share  with  us,  of  the  cargo  of  your  ship  !' 

"A  dead  silence  answered  him. 

"'Swear!'  and  the  black  flag  was  waved  before  their  faces. 

" '  Will  my  lord  pardon  us  V  answered  the  captain  for  the 
rest.  '  Will  my  lord  take  what  we  have  and  suffer  us  to  go  in 
peace?  I  only  plead  that  our  lives  may  be  spared.' 

" '  Your  lives  are  our  deaths,  unless  you  join  with  us.  You 
have  five  minutes  for  deliberation.  Swear,  by  the  black  flag, — 
kiss  the  bloody  head,  and,  on  your  knees,  take  the  oath,  or  you 
walk  the  plank  every  mother's  son  of  you.' 

"A  dead  silence  again  followed.  Meanwhile,  the  Creole  wife, 
crouching  in  the  rear  of  her  husband,  who  stood  immediately 
behind  the  captain,  involuntarily  took  from  her  bosom  the  cross 
of  black  ebony,  and,  sinking  silently  upon  her  knees,  pressed  it 
to  her  lips,  while  they  parted,  in  unuttered  prayers  to  Heaven. 

"  The  movement  did  not  escape  the  ruflian.  He  was  now  re 
minded  of  the  woman  whom  he  had  sent  up  from  below.  In  the 
dim  light  of  the  cabin,  he  had  not  distinguished  her  features.  A 
single  glance  now  sufficed  to  show  him  their  loveliness. 

"'Ha!'  he  exclaimed — 'who  have  we  here? 'and  passing 
rapidly  through  the  group  of  captives  lie  seized  her  where  she 
knelt.  With  a  shriek  she  held  up  the  cross.  He  tore  it  from 
her  hand,  looked  at  it  but  an  instant,  then  dashed  it  to  the 
deck,  and  crushed  it  under  his  feet  —  accompanying  the  profane 
act  with  a  horrid  oath.  The  captain  of  the  Frenchman  groaiinl 
aloud.  The  pirate-chief  still  held  his  grasp  upon  the  lady.  She 
struggled  to  free  herself,  and  cried  out:  — 

'"  Save  me,  husband  !' 

"The  appeal  was  irresistible.  Desperate  as  was  the  attempt, 
the  yimntf  French  merchant,  drawing  forth  a  pistol  concealed  in 
his  bosom,  levelled  it  at  the  head  of  the  pirate  and  drew  the 


TO   THE   SHARKS.  t .1  ."> 

trigger.  The  bullet  ..uly  ruffled  the  monstrous  whisker  nf  the 
ruffian.  It  had  been  aimed  well.  hut.  in  the  moment  when  the 
trigger  was  pulled,  the  arm  of  the  young1  merchant  had  heen 
struck  up  by  one  of  the  nearest  pirates.  Baffled  in  the  desperate 
':.  the  merchant  dashed  upon  Blackboard  with  the  famishing 
cry  of  the  panther  striving  fnr  her  young  ;  and  strove,  with  more 
certain  dagger,  to  mend  the  failure  of  his  first  attempt.  But  he 
might  as  well  have  cast  his  slight  form  against  the  hulk  of  a 
mountain.  His  blow  was  thrown  upward,  the  stroke  parried, 
and  he  himself  stricken  down  with  a  Mow  from  the  butt  of  a 
carbine,  which  covered  his  head  ;md  face  instantly  with  blood. 

"'My  hu>band  !  oh!  my  husband!'  cried  the  wretched 
woman,  now  seeking  again  to  break  away  from  that  iron  grasp 
which  nevt-r  once  relaxed  its  hold  upon  her.  In  vain. 

" '  Fling  the  carrion  overboard.  Sharks  are  not  made  to  go 
hungry.' 

"He  was  remorselessly  obeyed  ;  and,  partly  stunned,  but  con 
scious,  Louis  Chastaign  was  lifted  in  half  a  dozen  stalwart  arms, 
and  thrust  over  into  the  yawning  sea.  Then  the  wife  broke 
auay; —  but,  ere  she  reached  the  side  of  the  vessel,  she  was 
again  in  the  grasp  of  the  ruffian.  She  never  saw  her  husband 
more.  His  head  appeared  but  a  moment  upon  the  surface  —  his 
hands  were  thrown  upward,  then  his  shriek  was  heard  —  a  single 
piercing  shrink  of  agony;  and  when  the  French  captain  looked 
upon  the  sea,  it  was  colon  ,1  with  blood,  and  he  could  j,,-rc 
the  wliitr  sides  of  the  glancing  sharks,  a  do/en  of  them,  as  they 
were  tugging,  below  the  surface,  at  their  living  victim! 

III. 

TMKKK  are  some  scenes  which  art  does  not  attempt  to  delineate 

>me  agimies  which  baffle  the  powers  of  imagination.     Such 

was  the  terrible,  though  momentary,  horror  and  agony,  of  the 
wretched  wife  of  the  young  merchant.  In  such  cases,  Nature 

hei-i-if  Menu  to  acknowledge  the  >am««  mcessitiet with  art, — 

acknowledge*  her  own  incapacity  to  endure,  what  art  lacks  the 
power  to  delineate  ;  and  intrrp">e-  a  partial  death,  to  spare  to  the 
victim  the  tortures  of  a  horrid  dying.  Pauline  Chastaign  swooned 
and  lay  unconscious  upon  the  deck. 


456  SOUTHWARD  HO! 

Meanwhile,  the  miserable  captives  stood  silent,  incapable,  par 
alyzed  with  tlioir  own  terrors  at  the  dreadful  tragedy  which  had 
been  so  suddenly  conceived,  and  so  rapidly  hurried  to  its  catas 
trophe.  The  French  captain  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  pre 
pared  for  his  own  fate. 

"'Yon  have  seen!'  said  Blackboard  addressing  him  and  the 
rest.  'Trample  on  these  colors' — pointing  to  the  flag  of  the 
Lily;  which  had  been  torn  down  and  thrown  upon  the  deck  ; — 
'  spit  upon  that  cross  !' — that  of  poor  Pauline  ChaMaign,  which 
lay  half  crushed  before  them  ;  — '  and  swear  on  the  bloody  head 
obedience  to  the  laws  of  the  '  Brothers  of  the  Coast !' — such  was 
the  name  which  the  pirate  fraternity  bore  among  them-eh -es ; — 
'or  you  share  the  fate  of  that  young  fool,  and  find  the  sharks 
their  supper  this  very  night.  Speak!  You!' — addressing  the 
captain  of  the  Frenchman. 

The  days  of  Rousseau,  Voltaire,  and  Robespierre,  had  not  yet 
dawned.  The  Frenchman  had  not  yet  prepared  to  spit  on 
Christ,  and  substitute  himself  for  God  !  Our  captain  knew  his 
fate,  and  was  prepared  for  it.  He  took  the  broken  cross  rever 
ently,  and  kissed  it,  then,  with  a  faint  smile,  he  politely  bowed 
to  the  pirate-chief — in  these  gestures  according  his  only  answer. 

'"To  the  plank  with  him  !'  was  the  command  of  Blackboard 
in  a  voice  of  thunder.  A  dozen  unscrupulous  ruffians  sei/ed 
upon  the  Frenchman  to  hurry  him  to  his  doom.  Then,  for  the 
first  time,  the  rest  of  the  crew  seemed  to  awaken  to  a  sense  of 
desperation,  as  by  a  common  instinct.  With  a  wild  cry  they 
rushed  upon  the  pirates,  striking  right  and  left  with  muscular 
arms,  and  all  the  reckless  \ iolence  of  despairing  nature!  I'n- 
happily,  the  timid  policy  of  their  captain  had  denied  them  weap 
ons.  They  had  nothing  upon  which  to  rely  but  their  nwn 
sinew-;  nevertheless,  so  sudden,  so  unlooked  tor  was  the  as 
sault,  that  the  pirates  hearing  the  captain,  were  overborne  :  he 
rescued;  and,  with  a  cheer,  they  all  together  darted  again  upon 
the  foe,  picking  up  knife  or  cutlass  where  they  might.  Alas 
the  brave  effort  but  short, -ne.l  the  pang  of  dying.  A  Q6W  flood 
of  ruffians  from  the  pirate  vessel  poured  in  upon  them,  and  fin 
ished  the  struggle  in  a  few  moments  ;  but  Hlackbeard  himself, 
meanwhile,  had  been  wounded  with  a  knife,  and  his  smart  ren 
dered  him  less  than  ever  disposed  to  mercy.  Maimed,  slain,  or 


NEW   PROVOCATIONS.  457 

only  wounded,  the  captives  were  all  hurried  into  the  deep  ; — hut 
one  male  being  suffered  to  survive  —  a  poor  cabin-hoy  who,  in 
the  last  moment.  grappled  the  knees  of  Hlackbeard,  swore  alle 
giance  to  his  authority,  and  was  admitted  to  mercy! 

IV. 

"  HIT  I>M«'  captive  remained  living  in  the  hands  of  the  pirates. 
This  was  the  young  wile  of  the  unhappy  merchant,  poor  Pauline 
Chastaign.  She  had  been  taken  to  the  cahin  in  her  swoon,  and 
had  been  laid,  with  a  certain  degree  of  tendenicss,  which  had 
given  no  satisfaction  to  the  girl  of  i'amplico,  upon  the  couch  of 
that  Amazon.  It  was  with  a  curious  interest,  whicli  still  further 
displeased  that  person,  that  Blackboard  hung  over  the  uncon 
scious  woman,  and  scanned  the  beauties  of  her  face  and  figure. 
His  second  officer  and  himself  conferred  upon  her  fate  together, 
in  the  hearing  of  the  wife  of  the  latter  —  the  thirteenth  wi; 
you  will  rememlier.  The  conversation  was  not  of  a  sort  to 
gratify  her.  She  had  no  small  portion  of  the  green  infusion  in 
her  system  against  the  indulgence  of  which  lago  con: 
Othello,  and  the  eager  appetite,  speaking  in  the  eyes  i.f  Blark- 
i.  \\arned  her  of  her  own  danger  from  a  superior  rival.  The 
lieutenant  of  the  pirate  had  his  p«ai*ai  aKo.  He  boldly  pre 
ferred  his  claim  as  custodian  of  tlie  young  widow. 

"  '  You  !'  answered  the  chief.      4  You  '.' 

'"And  why  not   me?'   was  the   reply  in   a  tone  approaching 
dofia, 

The  pist.d  of  Blackboard  was  at  his  head  in  a  moment  and,  with 
a   horrid  oath,  he  ordered    the  other   on  deck    and    to  hi-  «!i. 
The  lieutenant   slonly,  and  with  a  growl,  submitted.      When  In- 
had  gone,  the   girl  of   Pamplico  iuterpo-rd  with   the   same  ijues- 
tion  which  had  Leeu  uttered  l.y  the  lieutenant. 

•'  '  And  why  not  he  .'       Wh\    -h"iihl  he  not  have  this  tiling  ?' 

••  •  lii-caust-  it   does  not   plea-e  me  that   he  -di<>uld.  my   heailty  ! 

"'And  why  should  it  not  please  \  mi  .'' 

"  •  1  prefer  that  the  woman  should  keep  my  cahin  fora  whUe. 

44 'Ha!   and  what  of  I 

" '  You  !  ah  ?      You  may  go  to  his  cahin  for  a  while.' 

"  '  What !     You  fling  me  off,  do  you,  for  tin's  bloodless 

20 


458  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

ture  !  And  such  as  she  is  to  pass  between  us  1  That  shall  never 
be.  Don't  think  that  I  am  a  thing  of  milk  and  water,  without 
strength  or  courage.  No  !  you  shall  see  that  I  have  blood,  and 
that  I  can  take  it  too  !  I'm  not  afraid  of  your  black  looks  and 
thundering  oaths.  No  !  indeed  !  You  are  mine  ;  and  while  I  am 
yours,  I  shall  see  that  no  living  woman  shall  pass  between  us. 
You  would  fling  me  off,  and  quarrel  with  your  best  officer  for  this 
rag  of  a  woman,  would  you.  But  you  shall  not !' 

"  With  the  wrords,  quick  as  lightning,  the  unsexed  creature 
shot  round  the  little  table  that  stood  between  herself  and  the 
seemingly  insensible  wife  of  the  young  Frenchman,  her  dirk 
flourishing  in  her  grasp  directly  before  the  eyes  of  Blackbeard. 
She  had  rounded  the  table,  and  occupied  a  place  between  him  and 
the  threatened  victim,  before  he  could  possibly  conceive  her  pur 
pose,  and  heave  up  his  huge  bulk  from  where  he  lay,  to  inter 
pose  for  the  prevention  of  the  mischief.  He  roared  out  a  terri 
ble  threat  and  horrid  oath,  but  the  Amazon  never  heeded  a 
syllable,  and  the  poor  captive  would  have  sunk  beneath  her 
dagger-stroke,  but  for  the  fact  that,  while  the  dispute  was  in 
progress  between  Blackbeard,  his  lieutenant,  and  the  girl  from 
Pamplico,  the  captive  lady  was  slowly  coming  to  her  senses,  and 
understood  it  all.  She  saw  the  movement  of  her  wild  assailant, 
and  darting  up  from  where  she  lay,  gave  one  piercing  scream, 
and  rushed  up  the  cabin  steps  to  the  deck,  closely  followed  by 
the  Amazon  and  the  pirate-chief.  They  reached  the  deck  only 
to  behold  the  white  flash  of  a  glancing  form  as  it  shot  over  the 
side  of  the  vessel,  and  to  hear  a  single  plunge  into  the  gulfing 
billows  of  the  sea.  When  they  looked  over  the  bulwarks,  there 
was  nothing  to  be  seen.  The  wife  of  the  young  merchant  had 
joined  him  in  the  deep. 

"  '  It  is  just  as  well !'  growled  Blackbeard,  turning  away.  '  It 
prevents  mischief!  Ha  !  you  young  devil !'  he  continued,  throw 
ing  his  arms  about  the  neck  of  the  she-demon  who  stood  con 
fronting  him, '  you  are  a  girl  after  my  own  heart ;  but  if  I  served 
you  rightly,  I  should  pitch  you  over  after  her.  No  more  of  this. 
Do  you  hear !  Another  such  piece  of  meddling,  and  I  shall 
slash  this  pretty  throat  with  a  sharp  dagger.  Do' you  hear!' 

"  She  laughed  impudently  and  returned  his  caresses,  and  the 
deadly  vessel  went  on  her  midnight  course 


THK    1'IKATE    HOARD.  4  .'•'.« 


V. 

••  Sn  H  was  the  true  history  of  the  captured  Fronchnrji,  whom 
onr  pirate-chief  persuaded  the  court  of  admiralty  to  anju<l_ 
him  as  a  vessel  picked  up  at  sea,  abandoned  by  its  proper  own 
ers.     Blackbeard  was  soon  at  sea  again.     He  was  even  more 

•MtetfAd  in  the  results  of  his  next  cruise  ;  gathering  Spanish 
gold,  ingots,  and  jewels  of  great  value,  the  treasures  equally  of 
east  and  west.  But  he  carried  in  no  moi  >  for  the  juris 

diction  of  the  courts.  He  employed  the  shorter  processes  of 
liiing  and  scuttling.  He  seldom  found  any  prisoners.  He  kept 
none.  The  sea  locked  up  hi-  secret* —  for  a  time  at  least  ;  and 
his  cruise  was  a  lung  one  in  proportion  to  its  successes. 

"  But  news  reached  him  of  a  suspicions  character.  He  heard 
rumors  of  ships-of-war  preparing  to  search  for  pirates.  He  waa 
advised  from  North  Carolina,  that  his  own  virtues  were,  not  be 
yond  suspicion,  and  that,  somehow,  certain  rumors  had  reached 
Virginia  affecting  his  securities.  It  became  necessary  t«»  hide 
away  the  treasures  already  procured,  before  again  venturing, 
within  the  waters  of  Cape  Fear  and  Ocracooke.  He  inu.-t 
•lie  aspect  of  his  craft,  so  that  she  *hould  be  able  to  en 
dure  examination  as  a  fair  trader,  and  secure  the  bloody  spoils 
of  previous  ventn  '  >1  the  grasp  of  law  and  civilization. 

We  all  know  how  common  wa*   the   practice  among  the  pi: 
of  establishing  hoards  in  unt'ivijuented  place*.      All    these    i 

I'ling  to  tradition,  from  the  capes  of  Virginia  to  that  of  Flor 
ida  conceals  some  buried  treasure.      On  t;  .n  our  j>: 
put    into  Bull's   bay.  the  avenues  to  which  they  well  knew.      In 
this  region,  they  Delected  a  spot,  either  on  Hull's  inland, 
or  some  ..He  of  tin-  islands  immediately  contiguous  —  all  of  which 
were  then  uninhabited  —  in  which  to  hide  their 
at   midnight,  they  assembled.      The    hole  was   dug   in  the    earth. 
The    pirate*    all    gathered  around  it.      They   bore    the    glittering 
piles  —  in  ke^rs.  boxes,  sacks,  jar-.     They  saw  them  all  deposited. 
Then  they  clasped   hand*,  and  each  swore,  severaTy  repeating 
the  horrid  oath  which  Hlackhe.-u-d  dictated. 

"There  was  a  pause.     The  rites  were  yet  unfinished.     Th« 
hole  remained  opened.     Something  was  yet  to  be  done,  accord 


460  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

ing  to  which  alone,  in  the  superstitions  of  the  pirates,  could  the 
treasure  be  securely  kept.  Meanwhile,  there  had  been  voices 
crying  to  them  from  the  woods.  The  devil  had  been  adjured 
by  the  terrible  chief  of  the  crew,  and  he  had  answered  with  aw 
ful  sounds  from  a  neighboring  thicket.  They  could,  most  of 
them,  believe  in  a  devil,  and  tremble,  where  they  tacitly  re 
nounced  all  faith  in  a  God.  Of  course,  this  mummery  had  been 
devised  by  the  cunning  for  the  especial  benefit  of  the  ignorant. 
They  had  imprecated  a  horrid  destiny  upon  their  souls,  in  the 
event  of  their  fraud  or  infidelity  to  their  comrades,  and  the  audi 
ble  answers  of  the  fiend  declared  their  oaths  to  be  registered  in 
hell.  Such  was  a  part  of  the  scheme  by  which  the  pirates 
bound  each  other  to  forbearance,  and  for  the  common  security 
of  their  hidden  treasures. 

"But  something  more  was  necessary  to  the  completion  of  these 
horrid  rites.  There  was  a  needed  sacrifice  which  murder  always 
found  it  necessary  to  provide  t'>r  superstition.  But  this  portion 
of  the  ceremony  was,  of  course,  a  mystery  to  all  those  whom  the 
pirates  had  lately  incorporated  among  their  crews  from  among 
the  captives  they  had  taken. 

" '  And  now  that  we  have  all  secure,  brothers  of  the  coast,  it 
still  needs  that  one  of  us  should  remain  to  watch  the  treasure 
till  our  present  cruise  is  over.  Food  he  shall  have  in  abun 
dance,  drink,  and  shelter.  A  boat  shall  be  left  for  him  with 
which  to  fish,  and  weapons  with  which  to  procure  game  of  the 
woods  and  wild  fowl  along  the  shore.  It  must  be  a  willing 
mind  that  must  undertake  this  watch.  Who  volunteers  ?  Let 
him  speak  boldly,  like  a  man.' 

"An  eager  voice  answered  — 

44 'I  will  remain  and  watch  the  treasure! 

44  It  was  that  of  the  poor  cabin-boy,  the  sole  survivor  of  the 
French  merchantman.  The  trembling  creature  had  shuddered 
with  daily  and  nightly  horrors  since  the  hour  of  his  captivity. 
He  eagerly  <ei/ed  the  pre-ent  opportunity  of  escape  from  an  as 
sociation  the  terrors  of  which  oppressed  hi>  s.nil.  Blackboard 
looked  at  him  grimly,  and  with  a  dreadful  smile.  lie  saw 
through  the  wretched  hoy,  and  readily  conjectured  all  his  hopes 
They  were  those  of  all  who  had  ever  consented  to  watch  the 
treasure.  But  it  did  not  matter  to  the  pirate's  object  whethei 


THE    HUMAN   SACRIFICE.  i'il 

tlio  vohnteer  were  honest  or  not.  It  was  enough  that  he  should 
volunteer.  According  to  their  laws  none  could  ho  compelled  to 
take  this  watch  ;  and  it  was  one  of  the  secret  tests,  that  of  the 
volunteer,  hy  which  to  discover  who,  of  the  crew,  were  in  secret 
disl.val.  and  likely  to  prove  treacherous. 

••  •  V  .    ('    repeated  Blackboard.     '  You,  then,  willingly  choose 
to  remain  and  keep  watch  over  the  treasure?' 
"•I  do!' 

" '  Then  remain,  and  see  that  you  watch  well !' 
"And,  with  the  words,  lifting  the  pistol  which,  all  the  while, 
had  hern  secretly  prepared  in  his  grasp,  he  shot  the  wretched 
boy  through  the  head.  So  sudden  \va-  the  movement,  that  the 
miserable  victim  was  scarcely  conscious  of  his  danger  a  single 
moment,  before  the  bullet  was  crashing  through  his  brains.  He 
fell  into  the  hole  above  the  treasure,  and  the  earth  was  shoveled 
in  upon  the  victim  and  the  spoils  he  had  probably  fancied  he 
should  be  able  to  bear  away. 

"'There  —  see  that  you  keep  good  watch,  good  fellow!' 
44  A  wild  howl  of  demoniac  joy  from  the  adjacent  covert  star 
tled  the  superstitious  of  the  crew.  The  >acritice  to  the  fiend  in 
waiting  had  been  graciously  accepted;  and  a  tacit  pledge  was 
thus  given  by  the  demon  that,  with  his  aid.  the  treasure  should 
he  kept  safely  by  the  vigilant  spectre  of  the  victim. 

vi. 

44  Til  K  horrid  orgies  which  succeeded  to  this  murder,  among  the 
pirate^,  that  night —  their  dance  of  maniac  fren/.y  over  the  . 
of  their  victim,  and  upon  the  >p..t  of  earth  which  concealed  their 
buried    depOMte— <  ihility   Of  description,   as    it 

would  be  gn-atly  offensive  !••  propriety  were  we  to  describe  it. 
They  drank,  they  .lanced,  they  .sang,  they  swore,  they  howled, 
they  fboghl  ;  and  it  wa>  1-Mig  after  dawn  ..f  the  day  foil 

re  they  proved  able  t.»  return  to  their  vessel  irhicfc  lay  at 

easy  anchorage  a  short  distance  IV.. in  the  shore.  Before  leaving 
the"  inland,  they  had  obsCUTecl  with  trampling,  then  with  turf 
ami  leaves,  all"  external  sign-  of  the  burial  which  they  had 
made.  The  orgies  of  drunkenness  which  followed  had  served 
still  more  effectually  to  oblit.-rate  from  »he  memories  of  most  of 


462  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

them  the  impressions  of  the  locality  which  they  had  gathered 
from  the  scene.  It  was  with  this  policy  that  their  more  cun 
ning  chiefs  had  encouraged  their  bestial  debauchery  and  excess. 
They,  however  (the  former),  had  taken  the  precaution  to  estab 
lish  certain  guide-marks  to  the  spot  which  nothing  could  oblit 
erate.  The  extended  branch  of  one  tree  was  a  pointer  to  the 
place ;  the  blaze  of  another  was  made  to  bear  a  certain  relation 
also  to  the  spot,  and  so  many  paces  east  from  the  one,  and  so 
many  paces  west  from  the  other,  intersecting  with  a  third  line 
drawn  from  the  position  of  another  bough,  or  tree,  or  blaze,  and 
the  point  of  junction  of  the  three  was  that  under  which  the 
treasures  lay.  We  are  not  required  here  to  be  more  precise  in 
its  delineation. 

"  Their  work  done  effectually,  as  usual,  and  our  pirates  all 
pretty  well  sobered,  they  sailed  away  upon  another  cruise,  the 
fortunes  of  which  we  need  not  recount.  But  fhis  time  they 
were  not  long  at  sea.  After  awhile  they  returned  to  the  waters 
of  North  Carolina,  and  gave  themselves  up  to  a  week  of  riot  in 
Pamplico. 

"  But,  along  with  the  evil  deed  are  born  always  three  other 
parties — the  accuser,  the  witness,  and  the  avenger!  It  is  now 
difficult  to  say  by  what  means  the  later  crimes  of  Blackbeard 
became  known.  He  had  certainly  obliterated  all  his  own  tracks 
of  blood,  almost  as  soon  as  he  had  made  them.  Still,  these 
tracks  had  been  found  and  followed,  though  covered  up  with 
earth  and  sea :  as  if  the  accuser  and  the  avenger  were  endowed 
with  a  peculiar  faculty,  such  as,  in  the  case  of  the  hound,  ena 
bles  him  to  detect  the  odor  of  blood  even  through  the  mould. 
Blackbeard,  with  the  instinct  of  guilt,  was  soon  aware  that  a 
secret  enemy  was  dogging  at  his  heels. 

"  So  it  was. 

"  There  had  suddenly  appeared  a  stranger  at  Pamplico,  who 
threw  himself  more  than  once  in  the  way  of  Blackboard's  laot 
wife,  the  Amazon.  He  was  a  fine-looking  young  fellow,  of 
martial  carriage,  wearing  the  loose  shirt  of  the  Virginian  hunter, 
carrying  a  rifle,  and  followed  by  a  dog.  He  was  tall,  erect,  and 
very  powerfully  built.  There  was  a  laughing  mischief  in  his 
eye,  a  sly,  seductive  humor  upon  his  tongue,  and  a  general 
something  in  his  free,  dashing,  and  buoyant  manner,  which  is 


THK    VIRGINIA    HUNTER.  463 

apt  to  be  rather  pleasing  to  the  women.  At  all  events,  the 
stranger  found  favor  in  the  sight  of  the  girl  of  Pamplico, 
and  she  invited  him  to  her  cabin  —  l>ut  trithout  Blackbeard** 
knowledge. 

"  The  stranger  did  not  hesitate  to  accept  the  invitation  ;  but  he 
took  care  to  visit  the  woman  only  when  ho  knew  that  the  pirate- 
chief  was  pre>ent.  The  girl  was  a  little  dashed  when  he  sud 
denly  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  dwelling,  and  stood  in  his 
forest-costume  before  the  parties.  With  an  oath,  Blackboard 
demanded  tor  what  he  came.  The  stranger  had  his  answer 
ready.  He  had  peltry  for  sale  —  >everal  packs  —  and  he  wished 
to  barter  it  for  powder  and  ball.  Regarding  the  pirate  only  in 
his  shore  character,  as  a  fair  trader,  there  was  nothing  in  the 
visit  to  occasion  surprise. 

41  Blackbeard  regarded  the  stranger  with  eyes  of  curious 
admiration.  He  observed  with  delight  the  magnificent  propor 
tions  of  the  hunter. 

"'You  are  a  big  fellow,'  said  lie  — '  >trong  as  a  horse,  no 
doubt,  and  as  active  as  a  wild  cat.' 

"  '  A  match,'  was  the  reply,  '  for  any  man  of  my  inc! 

Ml  We'll  see  that!'  exclaimed  the  pirate,  Middenly  rising  and 
grappling  with  the  stranger  in  a  friendly  w  re  .-tie.  The  miiM-u- 
lar  and  bulky  forms  of  the  two  rocked  to  and  fro,  hrea- 
breast  for  awhile,  until,  by  an  extra  exertion  of  strength,  the 
hunter  laid  the  outlaw  on  his  back.  The  latter  was  nowise 
raffled. 

" '  You  don't  look  the  man  to  do  it,'  said  he,  '  but  it  waa  well 
done.      You're  a  man,  every  inch  of  you.     Have  you  ever  : 
upon  the  sea?     That's  the  field  for  such  a  man  as  you.     Com.  ' 
what  say  you  to   a  v'yage  with   me?     Good  pay,  good   liquor, 
and  fine  girls.' 

"Here  the  pirate  winked  at  his  wile,  and  pointed  her  out  to 
the  stranger.  The  latter  -reined  disposed  to  entertain  the 
project.  Blackbeard  became  earnest.  He  was  anxious  to  in 
crease  the  number  of  his  marines,  and  he  held  out  liberal  prom 
ises  and  prospects  to  our  hunter  — but  without  suffering  him  to 
suppose  that  his  vocation  at  sea  was  anything  but  honest.  In 
those  days,  the  fair  traders  required  ->m.'thing  of  a  warlike 
armament  for  defence,  and  usually  had  it  to  a  certain  ei' 


464  SOUTHWARD    HO  ! 

"  Our  hunter  offered  only  such  objections  as  were  easy  to 
overcome  ;  and  the  result  of  the  conference  was  an  arrangement 
between  the  parties  to  meet  the  next  day  on  board  of  Black- 
beard's  vessel,  when  they  should  come  to  a  more  definite  under 
standing  ;  our  hunter  only  insisting  upon  seeing  the  sort  of 
world  to  which  he* was  to  be  introduced,  and  the  accommoda 
tions  and  the  fare  designed  for  him.  This  understood,  they 
separated  for  the  night — the  stranger  refusing  to  drink  or  cat 
with  the  pirate,  much  to  the  latter's  annoyance.  How  much 
more  would  this  annoyance  have  been  increased,  had  he  known 
how  tender  was  the  squeeze  of  the  hand  which,  at  parting,  the 
girl  of  Pamplico  had  bestowed  upon  their  guest ! 

" '  With  such  a  chap  as  that  to  lead  the  boarders,  and  I  shall 
sweep  every  deck  that  ever  showed  it's  teeth,'  said  Blackbeard 
when  the  stranger  had  gone. 

141  All's  well  so  far !'  quoth  the  latter,  as  he  passed  from  hear 
ing  of  the  cabin.  '  All's  well.  To-morrow  !  to-morrow.' 

"With  the  morrow  the  parties  again  met,  and  Blackbeard's 
welcome  was  singularly  cordial.  He  took  the  hunter  on  board 
his  vessel,  showed  him  her  appointments,  her  strength,  and  di 
lated  upon  the  profit  of  the  trade  he  carried  on.  The  stranger 
looked  about  him,  noted  well  what  he  saw,  took  particular  heed 
of  the  pirate  guns  and  sailors,  —  their  number,  their  character ; 
yet  pursued  his  watch  so  casually  as  to  occasion  no  suspicion. 
He  was  pleased  with  everything,  and  only  forebore  to  drink,  to 
eat,  or  to  make  any  positive  engagement,  as  before.  He  left 
all  things  in  a  fair  way  for  arrangement ;  but  it  needed  that  he 
should  bring  in  his  peltry  and  secure  his  various  hunter  effects, 
in  his  distant  foreign  home. 

444  We  shall  meet  in  seven  days!' 

4<  *  Be  sure  of  it,'  answered  the  other,  4  for  in  ten  I  must  prepare 
to  be  at  sea.  But,  by  the  way,  you  haven't  in  all  this  time  told 
me  your  name,  or  I've  forgot  it.' 

444  Well,  when  I  go  to  sea,  I  must  get  a  name.  To  confess 
to  you  a  truth,  the  one  I  have  borne,  is  rather  in  bad  reputation.' 

444  Ah  !  ha  !  I  see  then  why  you  are  here.  You've  been  using 
your  rifle  on  meaner  brutes  than  buck  and  bear.  Well !  I  don't 
think  the  worse  of  you  for  that.  But  give  yourself  a  name  that 
we  may  swear  by.' 


ROBERT  MAYNARD.  465 

'"Or  at !  well,  as  I  am  to  be  a  sailor,  I'll  take  my  name  from 
tlir  ship,  ('.ill  me  Mainyanl,  for  lack  of  anything  better.' 

"  So  they  parted. 

"'Mainyard!  Muinyard  !'  muttered  Blackbeard  to  himself. 
'  Wlu-iv  have  I  heard  a  name  like  that  only  a  day  or  two  ago! 
It  was  t'ri'in  that  hlo..dy  ho.d.y.  Colt-man.  There's  something 
about  the  name  that  —  p^haw  !  what  MI  ass  I  am!  as  if  there 
should  be  anything  strange  to  a  sailor's  ear  in  such  a  name. 
Yet,  there  is  something  !' 

••  And  with  a  vague  memory  of — he  knew  not  what, —  run 
ning  in  his  mind,  Hlackheard  frit  mystified  and  curious  for  a 
good  hour  alter  the  departure  of  the  Hunter.  Had  he  not  been 
half  drunk  and  very  furious  when  Colt-man  brought  his  story  to 
his  ear-.  hi>  doubts  would  have  assumed  a  more  definite  form, 
and  might  have  led  to  other  results  than  followed  his  oblivion. 

11  .Meanwhile  the  hunter  had  disappeared.  What  follows,  al 
most  literally  drawn  from  history,  may  serve  to  put  into  your 
hands  the  clue  which  was  all  tangled  in  those  of  the  maudlin 
pirate. 

v  n. 

"  BI.AI  KRF. AKI>,  as  the  fair  trader,  Edward  Teach,  had  provoked 
the  hostility  of  the  planters  in  and  about  Pamplico.  The  stran- 
hunter  had  Keen  among  them  before  he  sought  the  pirate. 
11-  had  gathered  all  their  evidence,  had  learned,  like  them,  to 
distrust  the  justice  of  the  ruling  authorities  of  N«.rth  Carolina  in 
their  dealings  with  the  pirates,  and  had  ft  -ught  the  >uc- 

nient  of  Virginia.  ( i<>\  ernor  Spotswood  had 
used  his  influence  with  the  British  commodore  on  the  Virginia 
station  to  employ  an  ade<ju;r  r  tlie  capture  of  Blarkb. 

1'or  the  eonimand  of  this  entei  juise  a  volunteer  hail  been  found, 
in  the  person  of  "lie  /!»/»,?  Ma i/naxl,  a  Virginian,  but  a  lit 
nant  in  the  royal  na\  y.  T.I  catrh  Hlackbeard  was  no  easy 
matter;  and  ?Ia\nard  f>und  it  advisable  t ••  make  hi::, s.df  per 
sonally  acijuainteil  with  the  f.uve  «if  the  pirates,  his  place  of  har- 
1'orage.  and  to  plan.  «>n  the  |p«(  itself,  his  mode  of  op.-rations. 
We  have  -een  tin-  pi"gress  which  he  has  made,  thus  far,  in  the 
character  of  the  Virginian  hunter. 

"While  he  thus  employed   himself  two  sloops  were  got  in 

20» 


466  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

readiness  with  equal  secrecy  and  expedition.  Blackboard,  as 
we  have  seen,  was  not  left  unapprized  of  his  danger.  But,  in  his 
debauch,  he  had  made  light  of  the  intelligence,  and  moreover,  it 
was  not  thought  by  those  who  bore  the  tidings  that  the  expe 
dition  would  have  such  early  despatch.  In  those  days  enter 
prises  were  undertaken  as  pilgriiaages,  with  great  deliberation, 
the  adventurer  stopping  to  get  himself  well  shod,  to  provide 
himself  with  a  select  staff,  and,  only  after  protracted  meditation 
and  perhaps  devotions,  to  take  the  field.  The  enterprise  of 
young  Maynard  proved  an  exception  to  the  common  practice, 
and  his  sloops  were  ready  to  go  to  sea,  while  he  was  discussing 
with  Blackboard  the  preliminaries  and  the  profit  of  future  voy 
ages  which  they  might  take  together. 

"  Beginning  thus  vigorously,  Maynard  did  not  relax  in  his  ex 
ertions.  His  sloops  left  James  river  on  the  17th  November,  1718. 
When  fairly  at  sea,  he  broke  the  enterprise  to  his  followers,  all 
of  whom  were  picked  men.  He  read  to  them  the  proclamation 
of  Governor  Spotsu  ood,  offering  a  reward  of  t£  100  for  the  ap 
prehension  of  Blackboard,  <£  15  for  every  officer,  and  c€  10  for 
every  common  sailor  made  captive  with  him.  The  proclamation 
was  received  with  three  hearty  cheers,  and  all  parties  braced 
themselves  up  for  the  conflict  which,  it  was  very  well  understood, 
would  be  anything  but  child's  play.  On  the  21st  of  Novem 
ber,  Maynard  passed  the  bar  of  Ocracocke,  and  rapidly  drew 
near  to  the  pirate.  At  this  period,  his  force  was  small,  consist 
ing  of  twenty-five  men  ;  the  rest  were  at  sea,  with  his  other  ves 
sel,  under  the  command  of  Vaughan  and  other  lieutenants. 

"  Blackboard  was  taken  by  surprise.  He  certainly  would 
never  have  waited  at  his  anchorage  and  with  so  small  a  force, 
had  he  dreamed  of  his  enemy's  approach  so  soon.  In  truth,  he 
had  been  waiting  for  his  hunter,  Mainyard, —  whom  he  looked  to 
supply  the  place  of  his  captain  of  marines,  one  Hornsby,  who 
was  very  sick  on  shore,  and  not  expected  to  recover.  He  did 
recover,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter,  but  not  in  season  to  take  part 
in  the  conflict. 

"  Though  thus  caught  napping,  Blackboard  was  a  man  of  re 
sources,  arid  prepared  himself  for  defence.  Maynard  standing 
directly  for  the  pirate,  received  his  fire  which  was  delivered  with 
terrible  effect.  Unfortunately,  his  own  vessel  run  aground,  in 


467 

the  shallow  water  of  the  river,  and  thi^  increased  the  odds  against 
him.  before  lie  could  extricate  him-rlf,  he  had  lost  twenty  of 
his  men,  and  the  pirate  prepared  I"  hoard  him.  Seeing  this, 
Maynard  hurried  his  men  helo\v,  with  orders  to  keep  ready  for 
the  hand-to-hand  conflict  which  was  impending.  Blackbeard 
bore  down  upon  him,  threw  in  his  ifranailex,  and,  seeing  the  decks 
bare  of  all  hut  the  slain  and  wounded,  he  hoarded  without  hesi 
tation.  Then  Maynard  rushed  upon  deck,  followed  by  his  crew, 
and  they  fell  together  upon  the  assailants.  Maynard's  costume, 
on  this  occasion,  was  that  in  which  he  had  made  the  pirate's  ac 
quaintance.  Blackbeard  knew  him  at  a  glance. 

"'  Ha  !  traitor!  Ha  !  villain  !'  he  cried  as  the  young  lieutenant 
confronted  him;  and  with  the  words  both  of  them  fired.  Then 
they  closed  with  their  dirks.  Blackheard  was  now  reminded  of 
the  wrestle  they  had  had  together,  and  the  recollection  made  him 
desperate.  It  was  ominous  of  the  result  in  the  present  content. 
He  was  overmatched,  and  slashed  almost  to  pieces,  hut  fighting 
to  the  last,  he  fell  at  the  feet  of  his  conqueror,  who  immediately 
smote  off  his  head  with  his  cutlass,  and  lifted  it,  all  reeking  and 
streaming  with  blood,  in  the  sight  of  the  remaining  pirates.  As 
the  black  and  bloody  mass,  with  its  wilderness  of  beard  was 
raided  on  high,  the  horrid  eyes  glaring,  and  glazing  even  as 
they  glared,  the  spectacle  overwhelmed  the  pirate-crew.  They 
threw  down  their  weapons,  such  as  Mill  survived  the  combat,  and 
ironed  on  the  spot.  The  capture  of  the  pirate-vessel  fol 
lowed,  but  had  nearly  proved  a  fatal  conquest;  since  a  desperate 
negro  stood  over  the  magazine,  stationed  there  by  Blackboard's 
orders,  with  a  blazing  match,  prepared  to  apply  it  at  a  given 
signal.  It  was  only  when  the  gory  head  of  his  master  was 
thrust  1-efore  his  eyes,  that  he  consented  t<>  resign  his  torch  and 
leave  his  perilous  duty  unattempted.  The  victory  of  Maynard  was 
complete,  and  he  sailed  up  to  the  town  of  Hath,  and  linalu 
turned  to  James  river,  with  the  head  of  the  pirate,  in  Urrorrm, 
hanging  at  the  bowsprit  of  his  vessel." 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

FROM    SHIP    TO    SHORE. 

"  THUS,"  continued  our  raconteur  —  "thus  ended  the  careor 
of  one  of  the  most  terrible  pirates  that  evor  infested  these  wa 
ters.  He  lias  left  memorable  traces,  in  curious  and  startling  le 
gends,  all  along  these  shores.  There  is  a  sequel  to  this  narrative 
which  I  have  related,  in  the  further  history  of  that  horde  of 
treasure  of  which  we  have  seen  the  burial." 

The  narrator  was  sharply  interrupted  with  a  cry  from  one  of 
the  party. 

"There's  the  light!" 

"The  Charleston  light!" 

And  the  group  of  listeners  were  no  longer  to  be  spelled  by 
the  raconteur.  They  broke  away  with  a  rush  ;  each  eagerly 
straining  his  eyes  for  the  pale  star-like  beacon,  set  by  the  guar 
dian  civilization,  on  the  edges  of  the  great  deep,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  benighted  mariner.  Meanwhile,  the  swarthy  beauty, 
Night,  enveloped  in  dark  mantle,  was  passing  with  all  her  train 
of  starry  servitors;  even  as  some  queenly  mourner,  followed  by 
legions  of  gay  and  brilliant  courtiers,  glides  slowly  and  mourn 
fully,  in  sad  state  and  solemnity,  on  a  duteous  pilgrimage  to 
some  holy  shrine.  And,  over  the  watery  waste,  that  sad. 
sweet,  doubtful  light,  such  as  Spenser  describes  in  the  cathedral 
wood  : — 

"A  little  plixmiinn  lijrlit  nioft  like  a  shade." 
showed  us  the  faint  line  of  shore  upon  our  right. 

"  That  is  Long  Island  which  we  are  so  rapidly  passing. 
There  it  was  that  Sir  Henry  Clinton  marshalled  his  array,  gren 
adiers  and  marines,  in  order  to  make  their  valiant  demonstra 
tion  upon  the  little  army  of  rifles  under  Thompson,  on  the  ever- 
famous  28th  of  June,  177G,  while  Sir  Peter  Parker  was  ham 
mering  away  at  Fort  Sullivan  within  the  harbor.  The  whit* 


GLIMPSES   ALu.\<;    BHORB,  469 

mass  which  you  see  at  the  extremity  of  tlie  dark  line,  shows 
you  what  is  called  •  the  breach,'  —  where  the  ocean  breaks 
through  with  t'.iain  ami  n»ar,  and  separates  Long  from  Sullivan's 
island.  To  cross  this  '  breach*  was  Clinton's  necessity.  It 
was  sometime-  fordahle  ;  but  on  this  occasion,  according  to  the 
British  report,  a  miracle  to<»k  jilace  in  behalf  of  the  Carolinians, 
not  unlike  that  which  divided  the  sea  for  the  Israelites,  yet 
raised  it  up,  immediately  after,  in  mountains  to  overwhelm  the 
pursuing  Egyptians.  Here,  the  waters  on  'the  breach,'  rose  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye  from  two  feet  to  seven.  It  ceased  to 
be  fordable  to  the  grenadiers  who.  strangely  enough,  contended 
that  they  could  not  possibly  hope  to  do  fighting,  to  sight  a 
carabine,  or  charge  a  bayonet,  with  their  eyes  under  the  water. 
In  that  only  half-civili/.ed  period,  the  average  height  of  a  gren 
adier  corps  did  not  exceed  MX  feet." 

"  Hut  Clint.. i)  hail  hi-  vessels  for  the  passage." 
•   <  >h  !  to  },«•  -lire  !      And    he   did    try  to  cross.     But  the  rifles 
iioiupson  pp. veil  an  obstacle  no  less  potent  than  the  arm  of 
the  sea.      Two  little   six-pounders,  besides,  planted  on  the  oppo 
site   sand-hills,  were  mischievously  stuffed  with  grape   and  can- 
•;-.     I'mler  the  two  tire-,  Sir  Henry's  rafts  Hats  and  schoon 
ers,   were    swept    of  their   crews,   and  after   two    desperate   at 
tempt-  the  assailant  drew     sullenly  off,  and  waited  the  result  of 
that  more  terrific  conflict,  which  was  going  on,  the  while,  within 
the  harbor,  and  which  continued  throughout  the  day  till  nine  at 
night." 

"  Then-  you  get  a  faint  glimpse  of  the  -and  hills  on  Sullivan'-, 
crowned    sparingly    with    shrubs,    among   which    the    rifles    • 

Behind    tho.se    -ami-bill-    then-    is   ijnite  a    fOTWt      The 
white  line  which  you  mark,  fringing  the   dusky  plain  of  the 
is    that    famous    beach,  so    broad,  -o    hard,  so   long,  of  which   the 
Chariest. mians    hoa-t  Ms  -,,  beautiful  a  seaside   driv.-        1' 
ond  to  lew  or  none  in  the  country.      \  M  the  h«-u-es  dot- 

th€  -an  !y  BOOMS.  That  long  dusky  building  is  the  Moiiltrie 
House,  coo],  airy,  ample  —  a  delirious  retreat  in  the  hot  MMOn. 
The  darker  coinpacter  ma--  which  you  note  west  of  it  is  the 
famous  fort,  formerlv  Sullivan,  where  the  stout  old  patriot  Moul- 
trie.  pipe  in  month,  at  the  head  ..f  hi-  little  regiment,  beat  off 
the  British  fleet.  From  this  point  you  rerceive  that  the  settle- 


470  SOUTHWARD   HO  ! 

ment  grows  denser ;  the  white  cottages  standing  out,  distinctly 
though  rather  crowded,  in  the  pleasant  starlight." 

"  What  line  of  shore  is  this  upon  the  left  ?"  asked  Puycknian 
of  Miss  Burroughs.  Our  Gothamite  never  left  that  young  lady's 
side,  and  preferred  evidently  to  get  his  information  from  a  femi 
nine  source. 

"  That  is  Moms  island,  upon  which  the  lighthouse  stands.  It 
is  also  a  pleasant  and  healthy  retreat  during  summer,  and  be 
yond  the  sand-hills  there  is  a  little  hamlet. 

"Morris  is  divided  by  a  creek  from  James  island.  Let  your 
eye  move  alongshore  in  this  direction,  and  you  see  Fort  Sum- 
ter,  a  new  fortress,  raised  upon  a  mole  in  the  sea.  It  confronts 
Fort  Moultrie  obliquely,  and  the  fires  of  the  two  combined  would 
serve  to  keep  an  approaching  fleet  in  hot  water  for  a  while.  We 
are  now  passing  between  the  two,  and  have  reached  a  point 
where  the  whole  harbor  opens  upon  the  eye.  To  the  left,  you 
follow  the  water-line  till  it  brings  you  to  Ashley  river,  descend 
ing  west  of  the  city  to  the  embraces  with  the  deep.  Look  across 
now,  due  north,  and  you  see  another  long  sandy  tract  stretching 
away  till  lost  in  the  distance.  This  is  Haddrill's,  or  Mount 
Pleasant  village  —  a  third  retreat  for  the  citizens  in  summer. 
Just  before  you,  Castle  Pinckney  looms  up,  forming  another  for 
tress  for  the  protection  of  the  harbor.  It  lies  within  half  a  mile 
of  the  city,  the  long  line  of  lights  of  which  you  see  stretching 
up  Cooper  river,  which  passes  down  from  the  north  between 
Haddrill's  and  the  city." 

"  The  harbor  is  an  ample  one,"  said  Duyckman. 

"  Few  more  so,  and  few  in  this  country  more  beautiful.  The 
effect  at  this  moment  is  very  fine.  The  seas  are  as  placid  and 
subdued  as  the  happy  slumber  of  childhood.  The  breezes  swell 
gently  over  these  slight  elevations  of  land  along  the  south,  and 
stoop  down  to  the  little  waves,  creasing  them  with  ripplftig 
beauties,  which  the  luminous  brightness  of  tlie  stars  enables  us 
to  follow  in  long  lines  that  are  unbroken  till  they  subside  from 
sight  in  distance." 

"  I  should  iike  to  explore  these  islets  and  rivers,  and  visit 
all  the  places  you  have  named.  Can  this  be  done  safely  in 
midsummer?" 

41  This  season — yes!    Charleston  is  DOW  very  healthy.    Were 


THK  rHAKI.i:STnN  CURFEW.  471 

it  a  yellow-fever  season,  you  should  not  be  here.  If  you  say  so, 
we  will  take  a  week  or  so  for  the  city  and  the  island,  before 
we  go  to  the  mountain  region." 

"Hera!  Ah!  When —  Miss  Burroughs  —  do  you  think  to 
leave  the  citv  tor  your  excursion  to  the  interior?'  queried  Duyck- 
man  of  the  lady. 

"0,  not  tor  a  week  or  two.'* 

Gotham  nodded  to  me  as  if  to  say  — 

"That  will  just  suit  us." 

"  Hark  !  the  gun  !  Captain  Berry  has  a  private  signal  on  his 
arrival  which  he  communicates  to  all  the  public !  Well,  my 
friends,  our  voyage  is  over.  In  ten  minutes  we  shall  be  ashore." 

••  I  hear  the  ringing  of  bells,"  said  Duyckman.  "  A  fire,  per 
haps —  or  possibly  the  salutation  of  the  city  and  its  welcome, 
in  response  to  the  gun  of  the  captain.  Your  method  of  return 
ing  a  .salute." 

"  No  !  it  is  our  curfew  ?  That  bell  rings  for  ten  o'clock.  It 
ignal  to  Samho  and  Tufty,  the  darkies,  that  they  had  bet 
ter  retire  to  their  .several  lodgings  for  the  night  ;  and  when  it 
begins,  at  a  quarter  before  the  stroke  of  ten,  the  parties  thus 
ially  notified  begin  to  make  tracks  homeward.  It  is  quite 
an  musing  picture  to  see  them,  at  that  hour,  scattering,  each 
taking  hi>  separate  wav.  One  hurries  home,  hearing  a  string 
"f  hlacktish.  He  has  pleasant  anticipations  of  a  fry  that  night. 
Another  carries  a  basket  tilled  with  a  variety  ;  he  will  scarcely 
be  willing  that  you  .should  see  what  he  carries.  A  third  has  a 
bottle  of  whiskey  in  one  pocket,  and  a  pound  of  tobacco  in  the 
other.  And,  thus  armed  and  charged,  they  linger  with  their 
Comrade*  and  acquaintance  about  the  streets,  till  the  stroke  of 
that  .-'//•/;•//•  hell.  A  last  w..rd.  a  hurried  shake  of  the  hand,  as 
they  meet  and  pa>s.  and  they  retire  from  the  sight  as  the  bell 
s. —  01  rather,  when  the  tattoo  ceases  which  always  is 
beaten  when  the  ringing  closes.  But  of  Charleston  —  more 
anon.  Give  your  arm  to  Miss  Hurroughs.  This  is  her  brother 

ho  approaches.  ir  M-  carriage  is  on  the  wharf.  I  will  see  for 
•.  if." 

i  hronicle.  for  the   present,  is  completed.     The  raconteur 
'&  iilent.     The  circle  is  dispersed.     The  spirits  have  nothing  fur- 


472  SOUTHWARD    HO ! 

ther  to  reveal,  of  the  secrets  of  their  prison-house,  at  the  pres 
ent  sitting.  But,  doubtless,  we  shall  re-form  the  circle,  and 
have  new  revelations.  We  shall  seek  new  sources  of  inspira 
tion —  new  media  —  and  fresh  materials;  and  soothe,  for  the 
reader  as  for  ourselves,  "as  humor  prompts,"  the  "idle  vein" 
of  both.  We  shall  assemble,  among  our  southern  forests  and 
mountains,  a  portion  at  least,  of  our  present  company  —  perhaps 
add  others  to  our  circle.  But  we  shall  make  no  definite  prom 
ise  ;  being  resolute  not  to  fetter  ourselves  to  hard  conditions. 
We  need  say  no  more  ;  and,  ju.st  now,  our  Alabama  cynic  is  at 
our  elbow,  with  a  courtly  entreaty  that  we  shall  do  him  grace, 
ere  we  part,  "  over  a  coil  of  snake  and  tiger." 


THE     END. 


TWO  NEW  FINE-ART  GIFT  HOOKS  FOR 
YOUNG  PEOPLE. 


Messrs.  A  C.    ARMSTR' 

HAVE  JUST  REAT 

SHAKESPEARIAN     TALES 

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w  Story  by  (the  late)  MR.  KINGSTON. 

PETER    TRAWL; 

Or,  the  Adventures  of  a  Whaler  Round  and  About  the  World, 


By  the  late  W.  //.  G.  Kingston.    With  EIGHT  rn.i 
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A  NEW  AND  SUPERIOR  LIBRARY  EDITION 

NAPIER'S  PENINSULAR  WAR. 

FROM  THE  AUTHOR'S  LAST  REVISED  EDITION. 

With  55  Maps  and  Plans  of  Battles,  5  Steel  Portraits  and 

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History   of   the    War    in    the    Peninsula 

AND  IN  THE  SOUTH  OF  FRANCE,  FROM 
THE  YEAR  1807  TO  1814. 

By  G-KilSr.  W.  F.  I?.  N-AJPIKR. 

IN    5    VOLS.,    CROWN    8VO    (IN   A   NEAT  BOX). 

"Sir  Wm.  Napier's  History  of  the  Peninsular  War  is  the  greatest 
military  work  in  the  English  language,  or  indeed  in  any  language,  not 
even  excepting  the  immortal  commentaries  of  Caesar.  General  Foy's 
'  Guerre  dans  la  Peninsule'  is  written  with  vast  ability,  but  is  so  marked 
by  national  jealousy  and  animosity,  that  it  loses  much  of  the  authority  to 
which  it  would  otherwise  be  entitled  from  the  author's  consummate 
knowledge  of  the  art  of  war,  and  his  familiarity  with  the  memorable 
scenes  and  events  he  undertakes  to  describe.  In  these  two  invaluable 
requisites  Sir  Wm.  Napier  was  fully  his  equal ;  while  he  possessed  an 
earnest  love  of  truth,  and  a  spirit  of  lofty  magnanimity,  to  which  we  find 
no  parallel  in  the  French  historian. 

"It  is  creditable  alike  to  Sir  Wm.  Napier  and  to  the  American 
people  that  in  this  country,  this  work  has  passed  THROUGH  SEV 
ERAL  EDITIONS,  THE  ONE  BEFORE  US  BEING  UNQUESTION- 
ABLY  THE  HANDSOMEST  AND  THE  MOST  COMPLETE.  To  the 
student  of  History— especially  to  him  who  loves  to  dwell  on  the  roman 
tic  character  of  Portugal  and  Spain— the  marches,  sieges,  and  bat 
tles  of  Wellington's  armies  during  six  long  years,  must  always  pos 
sess  an  interest  which  neither  the  Crimean  war,  nor  the  late  great 
struggle  in  this  country,  can  altogether  efface.  The  soldier  who  is 
devoted  to  his  profession,  and  who  seeks  great  military  principles 
and  examples  for  his  guidance,  will  pronounce  Sir  Wm.  Napier 
THE  MOST  FAITHFUL  AND  THE  MOST  COMPETENT  AUTHOR- 
ITY  TO  BE  FOUND  IN  ANY  ACE  OR  IN  ANY  COUNTRY. "-SCOTTISH 
AHKR.  JOURNAL. 

Sent  on  receipt  of  price,  charges  prepaid,  by 
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CHOICE    STANDARD    WORKS. 


THE  MOST  ELEGANT  EDITION  PUBLISHED 


Including  ELIA  and  ELIANA  (the  last  containing-  the  hitherto 

uncollected  writings  of  Charles  Lamb\  corrected  and 

revised,  with  a  sketch  of  his  life  by  Sir  Thomas 

Noon  Talfourd,  and  a  fine  Portrait  on  Steel. 

3  VOLS.,  CR.  8vo,  CLO.  PRICE,  $3.75  PER  SET.  (REDUCED  FROM  $7.50.) 

(Bound  in  Ualf  Calf  extra.  Jj  j*r  vol.) 

•;i  a  volume  of  letters  and  Essays  collected  for  this  edition  bv  the* 
industry  oft  and  arranged  -with  much  taste  and  skill  by,  J.  E.  BABSON, 
Esq.,  of  Boston  t  "  who  literally  knows  Lamb  by  hca>t." 

In  Mr.  F>abson's  preface  to  this  additional  volume,  he  says: 
"Other  writers  may  have  more  readers,  but  none  have  so  many  true, 
hearty,  enthusiastic  admirers  as  he.  *  *  *  With  all  lovers  and  ap- 
prcciators  of  true  wit,  genuine  humor,  fine  fancy,  beautiful  imagination 
and  exquisite  pathos,  he  is  a  prodigious  favorite.  Indeed,  there  is  some 
thing — a  nameless,  indescribable  charm — about  this  author's  productions 
which  captivates  and  enravishes  his  readers,  and  though  Lamb  found 
many  admiring  readers  in  his  lifetime,  since  his  death  his  fame  and  pop 
ularity  have  increased  greatly.  Then  he  was  generally  looked  upon  as 
a  mere  eccentric — a  person  of  more  quaintness  than  humor,  of  more  od 
dity  than  genius.  Now  he  is  acknowledged  to  be  a  most  beautiful  and 
original  genius — one  of  the  '  fixed  stars  of  the  literary  system  '—whose 
light  will  never  pale  or  grow  dim,  and  whose  peculiar  brightness  and 
beauty  will  long  be  the  wonder  and  delight  of  many.  *  *  *  For 
have  been  hopefully  and  patiently  waiting  for  somebody  to  col 
lect  these  scattered  and  all  but  forgotten  articles  of  Lamb's.  *  *  * 
Without  doubt,  all  genuine  admirers,  all  true  lovers  of  the  gentle,  genial, 
delightful  '  Elia,'  to  whom  almost  every  word  of  their  favorite  author's 
inditing  is  l  farsed  with  pleasaunce'  will  be  mightily  pleased  with  these 
productions  of  his  inimitable  pen,  NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED  TOGETHER." 

As  this  ''SUPERB  EDITION"  of  LAMB'S  WORKS,  in  3  Vols., 
AVERAGING  NEARLY  800  PACES  IN  EACH  VOLUME,  is  sold  at  the 
EXCEEDINGLY  LOW  PRICE  OF  $3.75  PER  SET  (formerly  pub 
lished  in  5  Vols.  at  $7.50>,  the  Publishers  confidently  believe  IT 
WILL  COMMEND  ITSELF  TO  ALL  FOR  PERSONAL  USE  AND 
FOR  LIBRARIES.  

Sent  on  receipt  of  price,  charges  prepaid,  by 
A.    C.    ARMSTRONG    &    SON,  714   Broadway,  New  York. 


CHOICE    STANDARD    WORKS. 

A  NEW  EDITION  OF 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  CRUSADES. 

.A~  3D.    3OO— 127O. 
IN  EIGHT  PARTS,  WITH  AX  INDEX  OF  47  PAGES. 

By  JOSEPH   FRANCOIS    MICHAUD. 

And  a  Preface  and  Supplementary  Chapter  by  Hamilton  W.  Mabie. 

3    vols.,    crown    8vo,    Cloth.       $3.75. 

(Bound  in  Ha!/  Calf  extra ,  $3  per  vol.) 

"The  ability,  diligence  and  faithfulness  with  which  MICHAUD 
has  executed  his  great  task  are  undisputed,  and  it  is  to  his  well-lilled 
volumes  that  all  must  resort  for  copious  and  authentic  facts  and  luminous 
views  respecting  this  most  romantic  and  wonderful  period  in  the  annals 
of  the  world." 

This  work  has  long  been  out  of  print,  and  its  republication  is  oppor 
tune.  It  narrates  very  fully  and  in  a  picturesque  and  interesting  manner, 
the  most  striking  episode  in  European  history,  and  will  add  an  invalu 
able  work  to  the  historical  literature  which  has  recently  been  put  into  the 
hands  of  the  reading  public  in  editions  combining  sound  scholarship 
and  reasonable  prices.  Of  the  first  excellence  as  an  authority,  full  of 
romantic  incident,  graphic  in  style,  this  new  edition  of  that  which  is  by 
universal  consent 

THE  STANDARD  HISTORY  OF  THE  CRUSADES, 

will  have  equal  value  for  the  student  and  general  reader. 
RIVERSIDE    EDITION   OF 

MACAULAY'S    ESSAYS, 

Critical,    Historical  and    Miscellaneous.      With  a  Biographical  and 

Critical  Introduction  from  the   well-known  pen   of  Mr,  E.    P, 

Whipple.     3   vols.,  crown    8vo,  Cloth,  3,000   pages. 

With  a  fine  Portrait  on  Steel.      Price,  $3-75, 

(Bound  in  Half  Calf  extra,  $3  fier  vol.) 

In  this  edition  the  essays  have  been  arranged  in  chronological  order, 
so  that  their  perusal  affords,  so  to  speak,  a  complete  biographical  portrait 
ure  of  the  brilliant  author's  mind.  It  contains  the  pure  text  of  the  author 
and  the  exact  punctuation,  orthography,  etc.,  of  the  English  editions. 

A  very  full  index  (55  pages)  has  been  specially  prepared  for  this 
edition.  In  this  respect  it  is  superior  to  the  English  editions,  and  wholly 
unlike  any  other  American  edition. 

Sfnt  on  receipt  of  price,  charges  prepaid,  by 
A.    C.    ARMSTRONG    &    SON,  714   Broadway,  New  York. 


CHOICE    STANDARD    WORKS. 


A   NEW    EDITION 

OF 

D'lSRAELI'S  COMPLETE  WORKS. 

C:r.,  LORD  BEA30NSFIELD, 

trait  on  Steel.    6  Voh. ,  Crown  Svo,  Cloth. 
PRICE,  $7.30    PER    SET.     (Reduced   from    $15.OO.) 

.  -.-./  in  If.il/  Cal/  extra.  J J  per  vol.) 

THIS  NFAV  EDITION  OF  D'lsn AKLI'S  WORKS  COMPRISES 

THE   CURIOSITIES    OF    LITERATURE,  -          -  3  Vols. 

CALAMITIES  AND  QUARRELS  OF  AUTHORS  AND  MEMOIRS,  1  Vol. 

AMENITIES  OF  LITERATURE,  SKETCHES  AND  CHARACTERS,  1  Vol. 

LITERARY  CHARACTER,  HISTORY  OF  MEN  OF  GENIUS,    -  1  Vol. 

A  collection  of  literature  which  no  judiciously  selected  library  will 
fail  to  have,  and  no  person  of  literary  taste  and  culture  willingly  d<» 
without. 

They  are,  in  truth,  a  history  of  literature  and  of  literary  men, 
gathered  from  the  writings  of  centuries  and  from  living:  authors, 
philosophic  and  learned,  yet  easy  and  fascinating. 

The  Curiosities  of  Literature  treat   of   everything  curious  in  the 

-:it.   bibliomania,    the 

rs,  their  labur-.  .mo  dotes.  suoccv»cr..  dilute*,  etc.,  containing  a  valnabi 
mass  of  rare  inform 

The  Amenities  of  Literature  "  is  in  a  different  -train,  and  4 

T  i-*c,  the  origin  and  growth  of  our  own.  tkfl  discow: 

pruning,  the   growth   of  literature,   j|  .  rs  and   buii.j. 

matters  which  have  a  bro.id  an  .  ;  :ii£  u[>.>n  the  subject  in  h 

The  Calamities  and  Quarrels  of  Authors  "  contains  an  ace 

authors'  Mrup.  *  *  *  teaching  them  the 

.;.  th'-  inirrur  |..r  tin- -c  w!i"  ni.iy  be  benefited  by  a  view  of  the  <!;' 

. 

Literary  Character  "  is  probably  the  most  searching  and  distinctix 

iu  kind  cxuuit,  made  u|'.        .  'iifessio 


•  m  the  fcclms>  and  confessions  of  me 
geniu*."  

This  NEW  IMPRESSION  of  the  .'_       .s  works    ••'thee.o., 

D      RAELI,  IN  6  VOLS.,  PRICE  $7.50  PER  SE"     .formerly 

)uo',shed  in  9  Vols.  at  $15.00),  has  been  aptly  s^    i  tr    :om- 

•he  cream  ^  English  Literature  of  Europe  fron    .lit  tim<  ., 

jhnsoi,  tc  w-r  own,  and  to  constitute  a  whok    ibrary    \ 

receipt  of  price t  thargts  prepaid,  by 

&   SON,    714   Broadway,  New  York, 


CHOICE    STANDARD    WORKS. 

NEW  AND  REVISED  EDITION 

OF 

HALLAM'S  COMPLETE  WORKS, 

With  New   Table  of  Contents  and  Indexes. 

IN  SIX  VOLS.,  CROWN,  8VO,  CLOTH. 
PRICE,  $7.50  PER  SET.    (Reduced  from  $17.50.) 

(Bound  in  Half  Calf  extra ,  $3  jxr  vol.) 


THIS  UNABRIDGED  EDITION  OF  HALLAM'S  WORKS  COMPRISES 
The  Constitutional  History  of  England,       2  Vols. 
The  Middle  Ages,  T&e  State  of  Europe  During  me  Middle  Ages,  2  Vols. 
Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe,    2  Vols. 

REPRINTED  FROM  THE  LAST  LONDON  EDITION,  REVISED 
AND  CORRECTED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


MACAULAY,  in  his  famous  estimate  of  Hallam,  says  :  "  Mr.  Hallam 
is,  on  the  whole,  far  better  qualified  than  any  other  writer  of  our  time 
for  the  office  which  he  has  undertaken.  He  has  great  industry  and  great 
acuteness.  His  knowledge  is  extensive,  various,  and  profound.  His  mind 
is  equally  distinguished  by  the  amplitude  of  its  grasp,  and  by  the  delicacy 
of  its  tact.  His  speculations  have  none  of  that  vagueness  which  is  the 
common  fault  of  political  philosophy.  On  the  contrary,  they  are 
strikingly  practical,  and  teach  us  not  only  the  general  rule,  but  the  mode 
of  applying  it  to  solve  particular  cases.  .  .  .  Mr.  Hallam's 
work  is  eminently  judicial.  Its  whole  spirit  is  that  of  the  Bench,  not 
that  of  the  Bar.  He  sums  up  with  a  calm,  steady  impartiality,  turning 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  glossing  over  nothing,  exaggerating 
nothing,  while  the  advocates  on  both  sides  are  alternately  biting  their  lips 
to  hear  their  conflicting  misstatements  and  sophism  exposed." 


This  "STANDARD  EDITION"  of  HALLAM'S  WORKS, 
in  6  Vols.,  AVERAGES  NEARLY  800  PAGES  IN  EACH 
VOL.,  and  is  sold  at  $7.50  PER  SET  (formerly  published 
in  10  Vols.  at  $17.50.) 

Sent  on  receipt  of  price,  charges  prepaid,  by 
A.    C.    ARMSTRONG    &   SON,    714   Broadway,  New  York. 


INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 


OVERDUE. 


LD  21-lOOm-7,'40 (6936s) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


i 

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